


the shivers are mine

by deandatsgay (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Age Swap, Anal, Bottom Dean, Disturbing Themes, Drug and Alcohol Use, Drugged/drunken sex, Drugging, F/M, Fingering, Forced Orgasm, Jealousy, M/M, Manipulation, Oral, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Somnophilia, Submissive/Bottom Dean, Unrequited Wincest, Wincest - Freeform, bottom!Dean, dark!Sam, dark!fic, older!sam, younger!dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:29:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 51,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/deandatsgay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not fair that Dean is his responsibility, his burden, his light, his angel, but not his. It’s not fair that he can touch Dean to bandage his wounds, brush his fingers over Dean’s forehead to check for fever, but can’t dip his hand to the rise of Dean’s delicate hip bones, can’t place his palm over Dean’s heart and feel it beat faster as he drops kisses to Dean’s thin throat. (SPN Kink Meme fill, all human AU, Dark, Older!Sam/Younger!Dean)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the spnkink-meme prompt: Dean is fifteen. Sam is twenty. Sam's obsessed with fucking Dean. So he starts drugging Dean at night when John's hunting, then strips sleeping!Dean down, sometimes fucking his ass, sometimes fucking his face (forcing the come down the still-sleeping Dean's throat), sometimes both in one night. Then he cleans up every trace, so there's no way for him to be caught. Bonus: what he's doing is slowly driving Dean crazy, because he knows there's something wrong, but can't find any proof of it or anyone to suspect, and to Sam that just makes it all the more fun.
> 
> As the prompt and tags warn, this is a very dark fic that readers may find disturbing. Please read the prompt and warnings!
> 
> Title taken from Tyga's song "500 Degrees". 
> 
> Please review or at least leave kudos! <3

A family moves in next to the Winchester’s for the first time in two years when Sam is seventeen. He’s just had another sprawling growth spurt, pulling his limbs and spine like putty and leaving twisted aches in his knees, his arms, his chest.

His brain.  
  
The Williamson’s have a daughter in the grade below him. Dean thinks she’s pretty; he always talks to her at the bus stop, sits by her on the bus. Ruby tells him he’ll be a heart breaker when he gets older, smiling deeply at Sam over the darkening hair of his baby brother’s head.

If Dean were older, he says, he would knock the bottom out of that (Sam rolls his eyes, laughs, burns). Since he can’t, he says, it’s up to Sam.

It’s Hell that summer; the entire month of June spikes above 100 degrees. (When Sam tries to explain the science, the harm, of global warming to his twelve-year-old brother, Dean just smirks and thanks the crisis for the return of bandeau tops and Daisy Duke’s). Ruby invites them over to use her pool, and while Dean is sitting on the shoulders of their eldest daughter, splashing with Mr. and Mrs. Williamson, Ruby leads Sam to her room.  
  
She’s so much smaller than Sam. It’s the flimsy flutter of her bones and the way his hand can almost close around her ankle that makes his heart pound, makes his breath shudder, makes him shake. (She’s not as small as Dean, but her hair is darker from the water and her skin tastes like chlorine and sweat and artificial blue, the way Dean’s would, and that’s what makes him come).

-  
  
The Williamson’s move. A few more occupants come and go, but Dean’s favorite is the guy who has a Sherlock Holmes accent (the guy Dean unapologetically refers to as Dr. Watson every time they see him, much to John’s irritation and Sam’s amusement).  
  
Dr. Crowley isn’t Sam’s favorite neighbor (Sam can’t fuck him and hear Dean shudder around him; the guy is too old for Sam, and even though he’s smaller than Sam, he isn’t fragile, isn’t sweet). Sam does like him, though, because he gives Sam a good deal on Loratabs and Morphine patches and Sam makes enough extra cash that year to buy a car without his dad’s help.  
  
At the dealership, Sam eyes a deep blue Ford Fusion, but Dean is drawn to a 1967 Chevy Impala gleaming hot and slick as oil in the sun. The dealer warns Sam it might not impress the young ladies, but Sam is mesmerized by the glide of Dean’s hands over the door, the way Dean  
runs his fingertips over the leather seat with a grin.  
  
There are a lot of girls in the neighborhood, in his grade, that coo over the Impala, ask with crooked, obvious smiles if they can have a ride. But the passenger seat belongs to Dean anytime he wants it (always), and Friday’s almost always find him at the drive-in he can’t believe still  
exists, throwing popcorn with his brother instead of steaming up the windows.  
  
He can’t help but look over at the other cars, sometimes, see people pressing their heat together. He can’t help watching and wondering if he and Dean could give the couple next to them a run for their money. He can’t help thinking they would.

-  
  
After Sam packs the bowl (he uses bud from the dime bag Gabriel was buying anyway, because Sam has always been a shrewd businessman), he fishes a lighter from his pocket and flicks it onto the coffee table. He props his feet on the edge and pushes himself almost half-way across the length of the living room, only a few feet from where his essay blinks on the computer screen.  
  
“I can’t believe you’re applying to Stanford,” Gabriel says. He brings the pipe to his lips, sliding his thumb over the edge. “Is your dad is gonna flip his shit if he finds us smoking in here?”  
  
“Obviously he doesn’t care,” Michael sighs. Sam can’t tell if he’s tired or bored or already high.  
  
Gabriel shrugs as he flips the lighter. He takes a deep hit, holding the breath for several beats before exhaling.

“What’s so unbelievable about it?” Sam asks, carefully re-reading his introduction.  
  
“Well, it’s not just Stanford. I can’t believe you applied anywhere out of the state,” Zack (who insists on being called Zachariah, even though no one has ever called him that) interjects. He doesn’t lift his eyes from his textbook. “You’re not really going to leave.”  
  
Sam spins slowly in the computer chair. He takes in the boys on the couch and raises an eyebrow in Gabriel’s direction.

“Yeah, no, there’s not a chance in Hell. I mean, you should go, but like you’re really gonna leave your kid behind.” Gabriel tries to pass the pipe to Zack instead of Michael, but Zack just turns another page. He huffs and slides it into Michael’s hand. He meets Sam’s gaze before shrugging again. "What? It's not like you can smuggle a teenager into your dorm room."

Sam’s body doesn’t tense, but his thoughts begin to stutter and the air in the room heats against his skin and in his throat, his lungs.  
  
“Dean can take care of himself.”

He doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince more with the words: Gabriel, or himself.  
  
Zack does pause at that. “Of course he can. But you won’t let him. The two of you are so creepily co-dependent.”  
  
The doorknob jiggles, but Sam ignores it, turning his back on the conversation and the bump in his heart. If it’s his father back on time from his business trip (for once), John will pretend he doesn’t smell the earthy air of pot, doesn’t see the lingering smoke or the tray and counter on the table. If it’s Dean (Sam takes a deep breath), his brother will plop down on the couch, pull out his homework, and irritate Michael until he takes his brothers home.

“Hey losers,” Dean calls.  
  
Sam smiles, soft and out of sight.  
  
He can hear his brother drop his keys on the entry table, backpack plopping to the floor, shoes being kicked off and landing softly against the wall. He can practically see it, and his smile, his heartbeat, deepens.  
  
“Hey, pipsqueak.”

“Dude, I’m almost taller than you,” Dean quips when Gabriel greets him. He shuffles into the kitchen to grab a Coke, then takes the recliner across from the loveseat Zack is occupying. “Hey, can I have a hit?”  
  
They all laugh. Sam rolls his eyes and spins around again.  
  
“You know the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?” Sam asks. He smirks when Dean glares at him. Throat oddly scratchy, oddly dry, he stands and makes his way to the kitchen, making sure to ruffle Dean’s hair as he walks by. “You’re only thirteen. In a few years, when you’re in college, you can smoke all the weed you want. As long as you’re still making straight A’s. But until then, no smoking on school nights.”  
  
“Ugh,” Dean groans. “You are the lamest brother ever.”  
  
When Sam glances over his shoulder, Dean is trying to sneer, but his full lips twitch in the smile he always flashes when Sam teases.  
  
“You hungry, man?”  
  
“I could eat the fuck out of some pizza rolls,” Gabriel says, craning his neck to peer into the open space of the kitchen.  
  
Sam stares impassively. “Do I look like I’m asking you?”  
  
“I’m cool,” Dean smiles.  
  
Sam grabs a sack of pizza rolls anyway, stuffing two large handfuls onto a plate. Dean will be hungry as soon as he smells them.

“So, squirt,” Gabriel begins. “You think your brother is going to get into any of those fancy schools he’s applying to?”  
  
Before Sam can turn around and tell Gabriel to shut the hell up, Dean answers. “Duh, he’s gonna get into all of them. I think he should go to Stanford though. Have you heard California Girls?” Dean grins cheekily, winking when he sees Sam looking back to them. “I mean I’m sure there are hot chicks in Boston that have that dirty librarian thing going on, but Sam likes blondes, and where else would you go for blondes besides California?”  
  
“And where would you like to go to college, Dean?” Zack has actually looked up from his book and is now watching Dean, eyes critical.  
  
“Well, that depends on where my big ass bro is living so I can crash his place when I’m in school.”

Dean is still smiling, but Sam’s stomach rolls.  
  
“See what I mean?” Zack says.  
  
Blinking, Dean asks, “What? See what?”  
  
“Nothing,” Sam says as he comes back into the living room. He narrows his eyes at Zack before taking the computer chair again. His fingers tremble as he moves them aimlessly across the keyboard, the slick and cool slide of plastic doing nothing to calm the heat in his stomach. 

Dean really would follow him, base his decision for his future on where Sam was breathing so their hearts could beat right next to each other again. Dean would leave their dad and stay for him. Dean would – Dean would -

 “Nothing,” Sam repeats again, digging his toes into the carpet. “It’s nothing.”  
  
-  
  
Sam sells a quarter of his weakest reggie for $60 to some kids a few years younger than Dean (but infinitely stupider; Dean would never allow himself to be swindled like that). He pockets the $25, and uses most of the rest to pick up a big dinner box at Pizza Hut plus extra wings and Mountain Dew. Dad left him money for food, but Sam likes to use his own when he can.  
  
As Sam pulls the Impala up to the driveway, he sees Charlie, the girl Dean likes to play D&D and go to the park with, rushing out the front door. Her eyes are as red as her hair when she runs past the car.  
  
He’s not really paying attention; he snuck into his own stash on the way home, and he has no idea where he put his lighter. His focus is captured by his brother’s voice, “Charlie!” and the slamming of the front door.  
  
Dean’s eyes move frantically as he searches for his friend. His gaze narrows as he sees her ponytail dancing down the sidewalk.  
  
“Charlie!” he yells again. He notices Sam sliding the food on the hood of the Impala, and he moves forward quickly. “Sammy, we gotta get her. We gotta – ”  
  
“Hey, chill,” Sam says, following the erratic beat of Dean’s irises (green like Kush, Sam thinks, like moss and evergreen forests that have remained strong rooted for centuries). “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing,” Dean snaps quickly, eyes shaking as he watches Charlie’s form begin to disappear. “Nothing, her brother – fuck, Sammy, I didn’t know what she was gonna say and I promised her I wouldn’t tell you but I didn’t – fuck, Sammy, fuck – “  
  
Concerned, Sam slides his palms on Dean’s shaking shoulders (they are fine and fluttering with pretty tremors, burning his fingers as they tense). “Okay, Dean, it’s okay. You can tell me. It’s okay.”

“We have to get her now,” Dean interrupts, tangling his hands with Sam’s (and Sam wants to just hold them there, feel the life beating in them, taste the sweat on his fingertips). “I’ll tell you on the way, but we can’t let her go home. He’s – she’s not safe.”  
  
Sam quickly slides the food into the back seat, hiding the dark irritation from his brother by taking a deep breath. Their father is on a trip to Houston, will be gone the entire weekend. Sam had plans to kick off the next two days right by stuffing Dean into a food coma and watching him fall asleep on the plush couch. Dean might have been full enough, tired enough, with the combination of pizza and pasta and wings, for Sam to put his hand on Dean’s knee (maybe his thigh) while Dean slept.

-  
  
They catch up to Charlie a few blocks before they get to her house. Dean spills her guts on the quick drive, voice shaking as he admits her secrets. His fist clenches when he begins with the way Charlie couldn’t look away from the bedspread, couldn’t stop picking at her nails as she whispered that her brother had been sneaking into her room at night.  
  
“How could – “ Dean begins to snarl, disgust thick in his tone and rage wet in his eyes. “How could family hurt each other like that? How could a brother – ” Dean shakes his head. When he speaks again, his voice shakes too. “I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna rip his fucking lungs out and I’m gonna kill him. He – fuck, you know she asked – ”  
  
Sam glances from the road to his baby brother’s wide eyes, glittering and beautiful in despair.  
  
“She asked if you’d ever done anything like that,” Dean breathes, eyes searching Sam’s weed-hazed, green-eye-dazed expression. “She asked if you ever would. Like you could ever hurt me.”  
  
Dean shudders. Sam grips the steering wheel tight under his hands.  
  
-  
  
There are lots of things in Sam’s life that aren’t fair.  
  
His father falls into his work after their mother is killed by a driver so drunk and drugged his eyes shone yellow in his mug shot, abandoning his boys when they needed him most. His father refuses to move them from the home where he and Mary wed in the backyard, the home his children were raised in, to live closer to family. His father leaves Dean in his arms and his hands without a second thought and expects Sam to never complain, to never want a life of his own.  
  
It’s not fair that he works his heart to the muscle raising Dean, keeping him straight in school and out of the pills he sells and safe from hungry hands, for his father’s barest nod of acknowledgment. It’s not fair how he had to become the man and wife of the house when he  
wasn’t even old enough for a driver’s permit. It’s not fair he lost his father when his mother died.  
  
It’s not fair he has to wait an extra year to apply for college because he has to wait until Dean is making it through high school before he can leave. It’s not fair that, deep in his gut, he knows his father will find some bullshit reason for him to stay anyway.  
  
It’s not fair that Zach and Gabriel were right; he would have never left Dean.

It’s not fair that Dean is his responsibility, his burden, his light, his angel, but not his. Sam feeds and clothes and comforts him, makes him smile and soothes his tears, always has cash on hand in case Dean needs something at school, takes care of him in every way.  
  
Sam deserves something, anything, any form or sliver of recompense or support for how he raises and cradles and nurtures Dean. It’s not fair that he can’t have the remuneration he craves for the way he works his bones and brain to tremors. It’s not fair that he can touch Dean to bandage his wounds, brush his fingers over Dean’s forehead to check for fever, but can’t dip his hand to the rise of Dean’s delicate hip bones, can’t place his palm over Dean’s heart and feel it beat faster as he drops kisses to Dean’s thin throat.  
  
It’s not fair that Sam can’t even run.  
  
-  
  
There are rolling papers lying in Sam’s desk, but he tears the patch of the letter that says _Congratulations, you have been accepted…_ to use instead. The ink is going to make for a harsh smoke, and the paper doesn’t fold or slide, but Sam feels justified and thinly validated as  
he sprinkles the OG into the makeshift joint.  
  
Dean pokes his head through the barely open door. “Sammy?” he asks softly. He’s still shaken from the earlier fight, Sam and their father screaming at each other, throwing insults and dishes until John stormed from the house. “Dad’s back. He wants to take us to dinner.”  
  
Sam snorts. “I’m sure he does,” he murmurs as he brings the joint to his lips. He’s about to spark the lighter when Dean’s expression softens, crumbles. Sighing, Sam slides the joint between his forefingers, twirling it as Dean shuffles into the room. “C’mere, buddy.”  
  
Dean closes the door gently. He moves to the bed. Sam doesn’t scoot over from where he lies sprawled on his Full size mattress. Dean just shuffles close to him, body pressing soft and warm to Sam’s side as he slides onto the comforter. Sam can smell the Axe he sprayed earlier for school still clinging to his skin.  
  
“If I could take care of myself,” Dean says, quiet and resolved. “If I was older. He would let you go, if I wasn’t such a dead fucking weight.”  
  
It’s true and it’s stupid; Sam’s chest clenches as he wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulders.  
  
“I’m sorry.” The words are sincere, golden and pure as Dean stares earnestly into his brother’s face. “I don’t know how to – what to do.”  
  
“Hey. Don’t do that, okay? You’re only fourteen – ”  
  
“Almost fifteen.”  
  
Sam smiles lazily. “Yeah. It’s not your job to take care of yourself.”  
  
“Not yours, either,” Dean murmurs, bumping Sam with his shoulder.  
  
Sam drags his heavy tongue (pulsing with blood and heat, so numb and cotton thick) along his lips. He wonders how Dean’s mouth, which gleams light spun pink and airy, would feel underneath it.  
  
It takes him a moment to catch up with Dean’s words. Yes, it is Sam’s job; it shouldn’t be, but it is, and he can’t seem to disengage from the fate his father bestowed upon him.  
  
“You know Dad hates it when we all go out and you’re stoned.”  
  
“I’m not going.” Sam takes a deep breath. “I can’t even look at that man right now.”  
  
Dean is quiet for a few moments as Sam takes another hit. He exhales, smoke brushing the softness of Dean’s cheek. Warmth stirs in Sam’s gut; if he were as light as smoke, if he were a ghost of breath, he would rub and tendril himself around his brother too.

“You know Dad hates you smoking.”  
  
“Dad hates that you see me smoking,” Sam corrects before he takes another pull. “He thinks I’m a bad influence.”  
  
Dean smiles. “Dude, you’re the worst influence.”  
  
Hardly, Sam thinks with a bitter burn.  
  
“Do you want me to bring you anything? I can order extra.”  
  
Sam lets his hand slide to the soft crop of Dean’s hair. He can get away with lazy, tumbling touches when his eyes are red and his lips move slowly. Dean doesn’t find suspicion in the increased clumsy affections, and Sam will take whatever pieces of Dean he can sink his fingers into.

“Nah,” he murmurs. He allows his hand to slide, palm rubbing over the smooth column of Dean’s neck for just a moment before his hand drops away. “I’ll get something later. You have fun, okay? Show Dad your report card. He’ll spring for pie once he sees your acing Algebra now.”  
  
When Sam hears the truck pulling out into the street, he curls on his side and sinks his palm into the warm soaked cotton pillow Dean had been leaning against. The sheet still smells like Dean, still flushes from the press of his hair and body. Sam inhales and grips greedy at  
the scent and heat, the remnants of his little angel spread so pretty and sweet beside him.  
  
-  
  
Sam had been a plan. He’d been a goal, an aspiration, and he’d been showered with gratitude and love for making Mary’s dream of motherhood come true.  
  
Dean had been a miracle.  
  
As much as Mary, as much as John, had wanted more children, they’d been told that short of divine intervention, Mary would never carry another son, a first daughter.  
  
Dean had been a blessing. Their little angel, Mary called him. He was always so soft and sweet and funny, making Sam laugh, never getting him into trouble, covering for him if he ever broke a vase. He tumbled after Sam’s footsteps the way every little brother did, but it wasn’t annoying. Sam always had a companion, a friend he could trust, a pair of eyes that gazed at him with adoration, like he was Superman and Gene Simmons rolled into one. For the longest time, Sam had wondered if maybe his mother was right. Maybe his brother was a cherub dropped to earth. An angel.

Sam doesn’t know if angels are watching over him like his mother always said, but he watches over hers (over his). He follows Dean’s movements as often as he can when he wakes and he looks over Dean when he sleeps.

Sometimes, he lays his palm over Dean’s heart and brushes his thumb over Dean’s lower lip, to make sure his angel is still with him. He keeps his movements gentle, careful not to wake his brother.

He reassures himself that the only light he has isn’t dimming. He breathes in what he can’t touch in the daylight.  
  
He aches.  
  
-  
  
Most of Sam’s high school friends are in town for the summer, and the few that are out of city limits drive the miles to make his first summer bash.  
  
All of Sam’s friends, acquaintances, ex’s, buyers, know that Dean isn’t to be messed with, isn’t to be offered anything other than a pop and a friendly smile, and certainly isn’t to be touched.  
  
Castiel isn’t really Sam’s friend.  
  
He’s Balt and Anna’s younger brother, Dean’s age, and too quiet. It’s always the quiet ones, the ones who don’t let their sickness out of their heads and past their teeth, keep their fantasies locked and weighted on their tongues, that are the most dangerous.  
  
Dean started hanging out with Castiel (Cas, he prefers Cas because that’s what Dean calls him) when Charlie moved. He never dumped the kid when she and her mother moved back on the other side of town. Dean always did have a habit of picking up strays and never really finding a home for them.  
  
They’re passing a blunt between them (and Jesus, how many times has Sam told his brother how bad blunts are for his lungs?). Jo and Ash are lounging on the twin love seat, Ash's feet on the table and Jo curled into the cushions as they work the PS3 controllers.  
  
"I'm good," Jo smiles when Dean taps her arm.  
  
"Lightweight," Ash smirks. 

She punches his forearm and his on-screen car crashes.

Dean bursts into giggles, leaning first over the cushioned loveseat arm and then against Cas. The teenager – the _boy_ – breathes heavy for a moment before knocking his elbow against Dean’s. When Dean turns to him, eyes drooping heavy, half-lidded and high (like he’s just woken up, like he’s just been _fucked_ , fuck) and smiles lazy and wide, Sam curls his fingers into his palm and steps into the guest turned game room. 

“You kids enjoying the party?”

Four heads turn to him, slow and blissed, but Dean’s gaze, red and green and languid, is all he can see. 

“Heyyy Sammy,” Dean slurs happily. “Wanna play? Jo’s kicking everyone’s ass.” 

“Literally,” Ash mutters. (Sam didn’t even know mullet kid knew that word). 

“I bet you could beat her though.” Smiling, Dean leans against Cas. 

 The casual closeness, the gentle smile Cas offers Dean in return for the touch, stutters something ugly in Sam’s chest. His mind twists around jealousy and the lie curves easily, guiltlessly, from his mouth. 

“I would,” he says, grinning at his brother and Jo’s glare. “But I actually just came to deliver a message. Meg’s looking for you guys.”

At the mention of Meg, groans and eye rolls spill from Jo and Ash. Cas’s spine straightens and his eyes widen when he meets Sam’s gaze. 

“Tell her to just come in here. Bitch has legs, right?” Dean mumbles, annoyed. 

Sam shrugs, keeping his face neutral even as his stomach tightens. “She said something about the play.” 

“Aw hell. Why’d I sign up for that shit?” Ash slumps into the cushion before dropping his controller to the ground with a sigh. 

Sam shrugs again. “She’s outside.” 

The three teens begrudgingly begin to push themselves from the comfort of the loveseats. When Dean huffs a “fine” and shifts as well, Sam steps forward. 

“She said specifically not to bring Dean.” 

“Hey,” Dean murmurs indignantly. 

“Her words, man. I tried to defend your honor. That’s why she’s outside.”

Shaking his head, Dean mutters, “I don’t know why she doesn’t like me. I told her, you know, I told her that even though she’s a bitch, I thought she was still really hot.” 

“And you wonder why she doesn’t like you?” Jo asks, rosy eyes rolling.

Dean nods deeply, chin hitting his chest with the movement. He seems amused by the brush of his pointed chin against his sternum and Sam can’t help but mirror his smile. 

“I don’t believe women like being referred to as bitches,” Cas offers quietly.

“But I said she was a _hot_ bitch,” Dean clarifies. “And – and it’s not like she doesn’t call herself a bitch. She’s _always_ calling herself the head bitch, the queen bitch, a bad bitch… She calls other people bitches, too. She called Casey a basic bitch the other day. That’s a double freakin’ standard, man.” 

The teenagers shuffle out of the room, promises to catch Dean later murmured behind them. Dean reaches for the blunt Cas had lain on the ash tray. The tip still burns (cherry red and hot, Dean’s lips when he’s chewed them from nerves, and Sam has to lick his own suddenly arid mouth).

“Man. Meg really is a bitch.” He takes a drag, holds it while Sam walks over and takes the seat next to him. Sam doesn’t sit too close, but he does allow his legs to fall open in a lazy sprawl, knee knocking against his brother’s. A gentle puff of smoke leaves Dean’s plush lips, falling like a vapor waterfall that Sam could drench and drown himself in. “She really is hot, too,” he sighs.

“Give me that.”

Dean hands the blunt over mindlessly, eyes fluttering shut. The brush of his lashes against his cheekbones is mesmerizing. 

“Thought you hated blunts,” Dean says sleepily.

“They’re terrible for you,” Sam answers. He doesn’t take his eyes off his brother as he pushes it into the Metallica ash tray. 

“M’tired.” Dean yawns, shifting until his head is leaning against Sam’s shoulder. Sam’s own eyes droop at the warmth of Dean’s temple brushing against his shirt. His angel is so gorgeous, so trusting, because his big brother Sammy would never hurt him, never touch him. Sam sinks his teeth into the bloated numbness of his cheek. “You’re a good pillow, Sammy.”

Just sleep, Sam wants to say. I’ll hold you, watch you, kiss you to sleep.

“Jesus, kid,” Sam huffs instead, voice sounding more desperate than he means. “How much did you smoke? You’re the fucking lightweight.”

Dean laughs at the tease and snuggles closer. Sam forces himself to look at the ashes, think of a fire that would drown his light instead of the fire ravaging his belly. 

“Not much. Jo mixed some screwdrivers early. Took a tab like half an hour ago ‘cause fucking Dirk tackled my ass like he wanted to fuck it when we were playing tag football earlier.”

The words shake Sam’s stupor. He shifts sharply, turning his body towards Dean, who sneers when the firm line of his brother’s shoulder slides from his head.

“Hey,” he murmurs. His eyes are open again, unfocused with weary content. A haze of beauty clings like smoke to his body, more disorienting and distressing than usual. Sam finds himself falling, lulled, by the molasses drip of Dean’s eyelashes. “My pillow.”

“You know you’re not supposed to mix pills and booze.” Sam’s voice isn’t as harsh as the jagged pulse of his chest, but his tongue is fluttering helpless against the pull of Dean’s lax mouth and the sweeping rise and fall of Dean’s dazed eyes. “It’s bad for you.” 

“Everything that’s good is bad for me. I know, I know.” Dean blinks slowly, rolls his shoulders, and settles into the opposite crook of the loveseat. It seems so far away (Dean feels so far out of his reach). “Hey, c’mon,” he says, only one eye lazily open. “Don’t be angry-face Sammy. I’m your favorite. You can’t be angry-face with me.”

Favorite, Sam thinks. Dean’s his favorite; Dean’s his only… anything. Everything. 

Dean smiles sleepily and finally shuts both of his eyes. He looks like a dream, like if Sam dragged his hand against his baby brother the image would just disappear under his fingers.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair he could only have this in a dream. 

“Don’t fall asleep on the loveseat, man. Come on. I’ll get you to your room.”

Dean’s lips twitch into an even wider grin and his eyes open. “Loveseat,” he laughs, cloud soft (all of Dean would be, Sam thinks). “Only girls call it a loveseat.” 

It’s difficult for Sam to remember what he was doing. The uneasy heat in his bones burns. He can’t look away from Dean’s smile.

“Come on,” he says again. 

He slides an arm around Dean’s shoulders, which are lax with drugs and vodka and the love, the trust, Dean feels for him. Barely breathing past the ache deep in his throat (his cock), he helps Dean to his feet.

The walk to Dean’s room is bumpy. Dean wobbles as he walks, laughing each time he wavers. Three people stumble, two giggling girls and one droopy eyed, dopey smiling guy, from the bathroom. As they move towards the stairs, Dean leans into Sam’s side and tightens the grip of his arm around Sam’s waist. 

“Lucky son of a bitch,” Dean breathes, loose and lazy, against Sam’s neck.

Dean’s breath is so warm, like whiskey low in Sam’s gut, like lust, and his voice is sated, the same tone that rumbles when he’s too full or too sleepy (the way he would sound after he’d come too many times, Sam thinks dizzily).

Sam tries to laugh, but the sound that crawls from his broken glass throat is breathless and pitiful. He can barely remember his destination, can barely remember where Dean’s bed is, can barely remember his own name or the reasons it would be wrong to slide Dean’s pliant body against the wall and lick deep inside Dean’s mouth until neither of them can stand anymore. 

“Can never talk girls into that,” Dean mumbles forlornly.

He sounds so young, so small. Sam can almost feel how Dean’s skin, Dean’s bones, would tremble underneath is his hands.

By the time they make it to Dean’s room, so many thoughts are moving sluggish and desperate in his head he practically drops his brother on the bed.

Dean melts instantly. He breathes a contended noise and snuggles into the comforter, rubs his cheek against the pillow.

Sam wants to crawl in beside him, wrap himself in the warmth, curl his own skin and spirit into Dean’s and bury himself there – stay there.

Instead, he moves to the end of the bed and settles his hands over Dean’s shoes.

“Let’s get these off, ‘kay?”

“M’fifteen, not _five_ ,” Dean breathes, but he’s smiling blissfully into nothing as Sam pulls the shoes from his feet.

Sam is struck with the urge to tickle the delicate arches the way he used to when they were younger. He wants to make Dean laugh and bring bright little tears to his bright eyes. He wants to make Dean squirm (for him, under him).

Then Dean throws a forearm over his eyes and the movement pulls his AC/DC shirt past his belly button and all Sam can see is soft, smooth flesh. The skin looks so cool, so sweet, and his mouth is so dry and so stale. If he could just run his tongue through the gentle hair, just suck in a mouthful of the cool-whip-cream skin, he would feel so much better (he would feel so good, fuck, Dean would feel so good, Sam could make him, if Dean would just _let_ him). 

He doesn’t move his eyes from Dean’s soft belly as he slides Dean’s socks off, but he does tell himself to stop looking. He also tells himself to stop touching Dean, stop tempting himself and driving his brain into the wall, but his thumbs brush the inside of Dean’s feet.

Dean stutters on a breathless giggle. The sound ratchets Sam’s helpless arousal, desire, need.

“Don’t.” The word is a gentle laugh. Airy like it’s wrapped in gauze and Sam wants so badly to swallow it he brings his hands from Dean’s feet and clenches them at his side. “Gonna kick you in the face if you try to tickle me bro.”

“Gonna kick your ass if you try to kick my face.” Sam tries to keep his voice light, teasing, brotherly, but in the dark of Dean’s room he can hear his hunger and desperation. “Get some sleep, okay?”

“’Kay,” Dean agrees easily. So easily, so sweetly, and Sam wonders why his baby brother can’t be like that all the time, why he can’t just be so easy and so sweet for Sam the way he wants (needs) Dean to be. “Night, Sammy.”

“Night,” Sam says back. He feels like he’s choking. 

-

The rest of the night passes in a haze. Sam takes the drinks pressed into his hands and smokes what is passed into his fingers. His mind is upstairs, breathing heavy at Dean’s side, watching and wanting. He’s always watched Dean, always wanted him, but once his baby brother hit fifteen, grew a few inches taller and wider, it’s all he does. 

Watch. Want. Pull away and hate himself and watch and want again.

Castiel floats back into the house eventually. Jo and Ash aren’t trailing behind him, and neither is Meg. It takes a flash of red hair and the sound of Balt’s snark over the music for Sam to realize why the kid even came back. 

He watches Cas and scowls at the memory of the boy pressed so tightly to his baby brother ( _his_ angel). Irritation spirals into anger, into desperate despair, as he thinks of all the ways and all the people Dean lets touch him, as he thinks of the ways Dean would never let him. A flash of Dean’s shaking eyes and shaking voice swirls his rage.

Dean would never, ever let Sam touch him. His baby brother thinks Sam’s touch would _hurt_ him. Sam would never hurt his family, his heart and soul. He would only make Dean feel _good_. He would make Dean feel things none of the girls he sniffs after could, things none of the stupid strays he brings home with him could. He would heal all of Dean’s hurts, would heal his own aches and pains with the balm of Dean’s skin and the silk of Dean’s tongue. 

Sam knows, has known since the day they chased Charlie to her house, he will always ache. The only thing that could ease his pain is the only thing he can never, ever have.

He doesn’t know if he wants to break something, someone, or cry, or scream, or just tell all of these people to get the fuck out of his house, or just _show_ Dean that a brother’s touch doesn’t have to be scary or cruel or bad, that it could be perfect. Clenching his jaw, he wills himself to think of something, anything, but the pink flush of Dean’s lips and how they would feel against his.

“You okay man?” a nameless, faceless voice to his side questions. Sam is going to answer, but then he sees Cas moving up the stairs. Without thinking, he moves to follow.

Cas is at the top of the staircase when Sam finally gets to the stairs. He tries to take a few steps at a time, but his coordination and balance are woozy and he nearly trips over his own feet. The commotion catches Cas’s attention.

Sam stumbles up the stairs as he searches for words. “Might not wanna use the bathroom up here,” he says.

“I was looking for Dean,” Cas says in that slow, somber way he says, does, everything. “Is he still in the game room?”

A possessive rush flutters through Sam. He’s glad, suddenly, that Dean is asleep in his room, safe and free of Cas’s attention.

“He fell asleep.” 

“Oh.” Cas blinks, and for a moment he looks sheepish, lost and confused, as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself if latching to Dean is not an option. Sam understands the feeling, but it only fuels his agitation to see it etched on Cas’s features. “Do you think it would be alright if I – ” 

“He’s out cold,” Sam insists. 

“Oh. I – I guess I’ll just – ” 

“You can text him tomorrow. I’ll let him know Meg didn’t throttle you.”

Cas nods curtly. He cuts a lingering look down the hall that makes Sam want to shove him down the stairs. When Cas looks back, Sam smiles at him tightly. 

They brush past each other as Cas moves down the stairs and Sam moves up them. Sam waits at the top of the staircase until Cas has disappeared into the throng of the party. As Sam loses sight of the boy, his thoughts drift down the hall. He thinks of Dean lying sleep warm and soft in his bed, trusting that his big brother will protect him. He thinks of how Dean’s heartbeat would feel underneath his cheek. Then, without a thought, he begins to move.

He’s slipped into Dean’s room enough times (just to check on him, just to check) that he doesn’t tense when the door creaks as it opens. Dean’s not the heaviest sleeper, but he doesn’t stir at small sounds, light touches, heavy thoughts in his direction. 

For a moment, Sam just stands and stares, drinks in the sight of his baby brother splayed on the bed. He pads over slowly. His heart beats, fast and deep. He used to worry the sound would wake Dean, but now he moves without fear of Dean’s eyes sliding open and Dean’s sweet mouth slurring, _‘ammy?_

Sam drags heavy fingertips over Dean’s collar before they drift to his breastbone. He lays his palm gently over Dean’s heart, feels it sleepy and sluggish under his skin. It calms his anger and frustration but ignites his hopeless, desperate lust.

He tells himself it’s enough. Dean is sleeping safe and sound. No too quiet kids are sniffing around. Nothing can touch him: not even Sam.

He backs away slowly, letting his eyes linger over Dean’s chest. He’s so distracted by the rise and fall and the bitter burn of never being able to touch like he wants to, he isn’t able to catch himself when he steps on a book and slides backwards.

The thud of his knees hitting the floor must echo through the entire house. He curses loudly as a dull ache explodes in his legs.

Fear grips him then, the way it hasn’t in years, and he snaps his head up. His hazy mind is already scrambling for explanations as to why he’s in Dean’s room, why he’s sneaking around. He opens his mouth to explain, to apologize, but the only thing that leaves his lips is a heavy pant when he sees Dean’s blissful, sleep slack face.

The noise of the fall, Sam’s clumsiness and voice, didn’t wake Dean up.

“Dean?” he whispers quietly. His brother doesn’t stir. “Dean,” he says a little louder, a little bolder. 

His terror dissipates and is replaced, almost instantly, with a burgeoning sense of wonder and opportunity. Something twists heavy in the bottom of his stomach and it pulls him slowly forward. On his hands and knees, guts burning, heart thumping, cock aching, he edges himself towards Dean’s bed.

“Dean,” he breathes when he reaches the edge. Hesitant and hopeful and completely crazy, he slides one hand to Dean’s belly. 

He’s never dared touch Dean on his smooth stomach before. If Dean were to wake up, he thinks he could explain feeling his heartbeat, could excuse assuring himself his baby brother is here after he lost his mother and, for all intents and purposes, his father, but rubbing his belly would be more difficult.

But Dean was bleary eyed when Sam dragged him to the room, had swallowed a Loratab and liquor and inhaled the Kush he’d swiped from Sam’s stash. Sam doesn’t know why he didn’t realize how out of it Dean would be earlier.

He closes his eyes. “Dean,” he chokes.

His hand shakes as he thinks about sliding it underneath Dean’s shirt. He knows he shouldn’t, knows Dean would flip his shit if he caught Sam groping him, knows it would forever damage the love he cherishes so deeply.

But he’s wondered what it would be like to touch Dean, to really touch him, for so, so long. He wants, God or the Devil help him, he _needs_ to run his fingers and palm and tongue over the sweet, smooth skin of Dean’s belly. His mind jolts with the memory of the inch Dean accidentally bared earlier and his body aches with the memory of how badly he wanted to touch, to taste.

Would it really be so wrong, he wonders as he moves the pads of his fingers over the softness of Dean’s t-shirt. Would it really be so bad to take a little of what he’s always wanted? Just once, just this one stupid drugged and drunken time. Just one time that Dean won’t even remember (it would be like it never even happened, almost, because Dean won’t even know).

It’s only once, and hasn’t he earned it? Hasn’t he done enough to earn this one thing? He’s raised Dean, loved him, given him medicine when he’s sick and taken him to school dances and kept him out of trouble. He’s made sure Dean has good grades and somewhat respectable friends. He’s kept Dean from knocking up some girl and getting into the kind of drugs and drinking that ruins lives. Doesn’t he deserve at least one quick grope that Dean won’t even remember?

It’s not like he’s going to hurt Dean, the way his brother seems to so strongly believe a blood related touch would hurt him. It’s not like he’s going to rape Dean, because he’s not going to fuck him (oh fuck, oh God, just the _thought_ of fucking Dean makes Sam’s already thunder pulsing heart and cock ache). 

He’s just going to touch Dean’s stomach. He’s just going to run his fingers through the hair trailing below Dean’s boxers, but he won’t dip below the belt. He might press his cheek to the skin, feel the warmth and softness. If Dean hasn’t stirred at all, he might kiss the softest smoothing of flesh. Lightly. Gently. Barely.

He’ll just touch Dean’s stomach, maybe – maybe – press his lips to it, and Dean will never know, and it will be like it never happened. He deserves something, after all, even if it’s just a simple brush of his mouth against the sweet skin of Dean’s belly.

With a heavy breath, Sam slips his hand underneath Dean’s shirt. His brother doesn’t even twitch. Dizzy and dazed, he swallows hard and brushes his thumb over downy hair and sugar spun skin.

He has the urge to squeeze his eyes shut but he can’t tear them from the shape of his hand under gray fabric. Another urge surges as he rubs his palm over Dean lightly (so light, so gentle, barely there, it’s barely happening). He wants, needs, to know what his hand on Dean’s body looks like.

His brain barely pulses as his body moves. He slides Dean’s shirt to his ribs. It’s insane to see his hand, huge and dark, splayed against Dean’s stomach. He leans forward and skims his nose through the dark but soft hair under Dean’s belly button. 

Dean smells like Sam’s body wash. He must have run out of his own. He must have taken a shower in Sam’s bathroom before the party. He might have even gotten himself off, feet planted the same place Sam’s always are when he jacks himself. 

Sam is so turned on, so desperate, he can barely breathe. Dean hasn’t so much as stuttered in his breathing, so he reaches for the limit he set earlier and gently presses his lips next to his brother’s belly button. 

It’s not a conscious decision to allow his tongue to slide lightly across Dean’s hip. There is salt and the lingering film of smoke and then there is Dean, sweet and precocious and precious and perfect. He groans at the feeling, the taste; he thinks he might cry, might die, if he isn’t already dead, at how incredible it is. He doesn’t think anything has ever tasted so good, that anything will ever taste as good again.

“Fuck,” he slurs against Dean’s body. With Herculean effort he pulls away, panting and aching from his head to his chest to his cock. His hand is still on Dean’s stomach. Dean is still asleep. 

Sam lets his forehead fall against Dean’s stomach. This is temptation. Forget snakes in the garden, Godhood, immortality, riches and power. Dean sleeping sweet and sound, spread out for Sam to do anything to, is the definition of temptation, is the key to the gate of Hell. If Sam doesn’t leave now, right now, he’s going to fall headfirst and strong. 

His fingers twitch against Dean’s skin.

If he leaves now, he can jerk himself off to the memory of his angel’s soft breath and soft skin. He can pretend he took advantage of Dean’s state in his fantasies and hate himself in the morning. 

If he leaves now, he can lie in bed all night long and think about his baby brother, drugged and sweet and vulnerable. He can toss and turn and bite his fists all night long to stay away, keep his hands to himself, and hate himself for missing what might be the only opportunity he will ever have to get what he wants most in the world. 

He’s already kissed Dean’s stomach, licked a sliver of sweetness from Dean’s skin. It wouldn’t be any worse if he were to kiss Dean’s lips, maybe lap at the plush top lip, maybe suck the bottom into his own mouth and savor it for just a second. It wouldn’t even be wrong, not really: if Dean was awake he would say no, of course, but if Dean was awake Sam wouldn’t try, and in Dean’s drugged sleep, he can’t say anything at all. 

Keeping his hand on Dean’s belly, he pushes himself up to sit by Dean’s side.

His breathing is ragged as he hovers above Dean’s face. He waits a moment, heart trembling and cock pulsing, for Dean’s eyes to fly open, for Dean to push him away or scream or stare at him with wide, betrayed eyes. Dean just takes another breath. 

He reminds himself how many nights, days, years, he’s wanted to kiss Dean senseless and how disgustingly unfair it is that he’s been denied. He’s worked so hard to be everything for Dean, he deserves at least one kiss. 

He can’t stop the noise he makes at the feeling of soft lips yielding to his own. He lingers for just a moment before pulling back to study Dean’s face. His brother is beautiful in his sleep, peaceful and pretty and young. Perfect. 

Sam kisses him again, pressure gentle as he learns the feeling of Dean’s mouth.   

Dean’s unresponsive lips are as sweet as his soft belly. It’s the best kiss he’s ever had, and he’s had his tongue in the mouths of plenty of gentle girls and gentle boys, chasing the taste of his baby brother in foreign throats. 

It’s so much hotter than any other kiss, because it’s Dean, who is the most beautiful thing Sam will ever see. It’s so much better because it’s Dean, who is his heart and soul and home. It’s perfect and he doesn’t want to stop.

He slides his hand up Dean’s shirt, up his skin, and feels the pounding of Dean’s heart against his chest. He tries to count the beats as he keeps their mouths pressed together, but he loses track as he loses his mind. His lips move against Dean’s gently before he slips his tongue along the crease of Dean’s lips. 

Shuddering, he forces himself to pull back. He wants more than Dean’s lips. He wants Dean’s mouth, all of it, soft and warm and yielding. He wants to press his tongue to the inside of Dean’s cheek and run it over the edge of Dean’s teeth and he wants to suck Dean’s own tongue into his mouth, work it until Dean whimpers and groans and begs.

He clenches his teeth and reminds himself that’s not going to happen. Not now, not ever.

One more kiss, he decides. One more and then he’ll crawl from Dean’s room with his heart and cock limping in the pain of denial, rejection. One more kiss with just a hint of tongue, just a tiny taste of his baby brother’s mouth. 

Sam leans forward to capture Dean’s lips again before hesitating. He really will do it only one more time, but if it’s just one more time, he should make it count.

He moves awkwardly as he settles himself across Dean’s hips. There are a few touch-and-go moments when he thinks Dean will wake, but when he finally straddles his brother, Dean’s eyes are still closed and his breathing is still even. 

Dean is never taking another loratab with vodka, he thinks with irritation. What if Dean’s little friends had dragged him to another party? What if the person who found Dean passed out and vulnerable didn’t love him the way Sam did? What if a creep had wandered in, someone who didn’t care and live for Dean the way Sam did, and rolled Dean to his stomach and fucked him dry and hard, _hurt_ him? (Sam ignores the hot pulse in his stomach at the thought). 

Sam will always, always take care of his little brother, but Dean needs to learn not to be so careless. Dean needs to understand that Sam might not always be there (he will be) and that he needs to listen to his big brother all the time, not just when he feels like it.

He presses his tongue into Dean’s unresisting mouth, a little rougher than he planned. The sweetness of Dean’s mouth eases his bitter ache. He loses himself in the softness, the goodness, the rightness of his tongue moving over the grooves of Dean’s teeth. Wanting more, needing it, he brings both of his hands to Dean’s jaw and presses, opening Dean’s mouth for his greedy tongue. 

It’s more than one kiss. A small taste becomes a feast as Sam licks into Dean’s mouth, licks his lips. Sam is so caught up in his banquet that it takes him several moments to process the sounds sloshing softly from Dean’s lips.

Terrified he’s been caught, Sam pulls away. He has no explanation for what he’s doing but Dean’s eyes are fluttering under his lids instead of open in confused betrayal. 

His baby brother really is out of it. Really. He’s slept through Sam’s touches and Sam’s kisses. Sam can’t help wondering what else he could sleep through.

Experimentally, Sam rolls his hips. He bites his lip to muffle the groan at the feeling of their groins rubbing together. When he moves again, he realizes Dean is half hard underneath him. 

He doesn’t even bother to soften the wild, hungry noise that rips through his throat. His mouth falls against Dean’s again and he doesn’t bother being subtle or gentle. He nips Dean’s slick lips and rubs their cocks together again, then again, and again.

At this point, Dean could wake up and Sam couldn’t stop. He couldn’t and fuck, he doesn’t want to. It feels so damn good to rub against Dean’s warm, limp little body. Panting, he kisses his away across Dean’s smooth jaw, soft cheek, and licks his neck before sucking the cotton candy skin into his mouth. 

Briefly he wonders if he should worry about leaving a mark, but then realizes it doesn’t matter. If Dean doesn’t wake up, if he doesn’t know Sam slipped into his room and took what he’s always wanted, Dean will never realize he’s wearing his brother’s possession on his neck. Sam will, though, and the thought of seeing his mark on Dean’s neck pushes his hips harder. 

He continues rubbing off against his little brother like he’s a teenager, like he’s seventeen again and pressing petite neighbor girls into his bed, except tonight he doesn’t have to struggle to keep the echo of Dean’s voice or Dean’s scent in his head, because it’s Dean underneath him. 

More noises, unconscious little whimpers, leave Dean’s mouth. Sam licks them up, swallows them. He presses their hips together harder. The heat of Dean’s skin, his cock, seeps through their jeans. Sam wishes he could touch that fire flesh, suck Dean’s hot dick down his throat. 

It’s the realization that he could (Dean is so, so out of it, Sam could suck him off, could - ) that makes Sam’s hips stutter. Like this, drugged and drunk and trusting, Dean is finally his in every way Sam wants him. Like this, Sam can have him, can do the things he’s thought of while he’s watched and wanted.

A few more thrusts has Sam coming in his boxer briefs like a god damn kid, but he doesn’t care. The smell of Dean, the heat and softness of him, the feeling of his hard little dick twitching against Sam’s, is more than enough to get him off. Pleasure and bone deep satisfaction seep through him instantly. 

He slumps against Dean’s body. Panting, he latches onto Dean’s neck again and grinds through the aftershocks of the most intense, decadent orgasm he’s ever had.  

It’s a slow, sluggish come down. He moves his hips a few more times, the mess in his jeans rubbing slick and sick against his still twitching cock. Now that he’s winding down, he can feel Dean’s hot, hard dick even more. He moans into Dean’s neck. Unconsciously, Dean moans right back. 

With a final long lick to the arch of Dean’s neck, Sam slides down his brother’s body. All worries of getting caught are beyond faded. 

Dean’s shirt is still rucked up to his ribs, and Sam takes in the expanse of flesh before descending with his lips and tongue. He kisses and licks and sucks little roses into Dean’s belly. Looking up, he sees Dean’s plush lips have fallen open. It’s an invitation to plunder if Sam has ever seen one, so he leans back up and dips his tongue into the burning sweet pink of his little angel’s mouth.

Without breaking the kiss, Sam slides his hand down Dean’s chest, rakes his nails gently over Dean’s belly, and settles his palm over the mound in Dean’s jeans. 

A whimper leaves Dean’s mouth and Sam sucks it right into his own throat. He rubs his little brother through his jeans. The heat is so much more intense (like Sam’s hand is going to melt but he doesn’t give a single fuck, not when touching Dean right here like this feels so incredible) and the outline of Dean’s cock is so much fuller, so much better against Sam’s skin than his jeans.

It doesn’t take long for Dean to come. Sam can feel the twitch and pulse, feel the wetness of what he knows would be the fucking sweetest tasting come seeping through Dean’s denim. He keeps rubbing until pained little noises leave his brother’s mouth, until the beautiful body underneath his begins to squirm. 

He kisses Dean hot and messy and deep, smearing spit over Dean’s mouth and chin, one more time. Then he slides down to Dean’s crotch. It’s gross and sick but Sam is so far beyond either he barely thinks about it before pressing his face into the mess. He licks the rough, damp denim, groaning into Dean’s softening dick at the texture and taste.

Minutes or hours or days pass, Sam doesn’t know. After his tongue feels burnt from the scratch of Dean’s jeans and the heat of Dean’s come and cock, he rests his cheek against the solid warmth of Dean’s thigh. He isn’t sure how long he stays there. It feels more like home than their empty house has ever felt and he never wants to move. 

Eventually Dean shifts. His leg moves under Sam’s cheek and he brushes the top of Sam’s hair as he rearranges his arms. Shuddering and shaking, Sam presses a kiss to Dean’s jean clad thigh. He nips it, too, and when Dean makes a small, distressed noise, he kisses the spot again. 

Nervousness begins to seep through his post-orgasmic haze. Dean didn’t wake up through the entire time Sam was touching and tasting him, but he’s suddenly hyper aware of every move and noise he makes. Sam slides slowly from the bed and tip toes to the door. 

With a final glance at his gorgeous, messy angel, Sam slips out of the room. 

-

Sam fully expects to hate himself in the morning. He expects to be ashamed of abusing his precious little brother’s trust and body, disgusted by his lack of control and the things he did. He expects to feel guilty. 

When Dean wanders sleepily to the breakfast table the next morning, blinking as he rubs the mottled purple mark on his neck, Sam doesn’t feel guilty at all. He doesn’t feel embarrassed. He doesn’t feel terrible.

All he feels is a pulse in his groin. 

No ache in his heart, no thump in his conscience, only a feeling of rightness in his gut and hunger in his cock. 

“Did I hook up with someone last night?” Dean mumbles sleepily as he reaches for the cereal at the top of the fridge. A few inches of skin flashes. Sam’s mouth waters and his fingers itch because he knows now exactly how insane that skin tastes, feels. He realizes last night didn’t sate his thirst for his little brother’s body: it only deepened it. “Got a hell of a hickey that I don’t remember being there yesterday.” 

Sam can’t move his eyes from the curve of Dean’s ass in the sweat pants that cling to him as he moves. Staring, hungry, he answers, “Dunno. Was pretty out of it myself.” Then, because Sam feels a sick sense of relief that Dean doesn’t realize it was him and an even sicker sense of anger that Dean doesn’t realize it was him (and that it was fine, Sam didn’t hurt him, just got him off), he adds, “I think I saw Cas go up to your room though.” 

Dean cranes his neck, pausing from pouring milk into his cereal. “Cas?” he says strangely. 

Face twisted in an expression Sam can’t read, Dean brushes his fingers against the bruise again.

Sam’s anger flares. He expected Dean to flip out, to grimace and shudder the same way he did at the thought of Sam touching him, not soften in confusion.

“Yeah, he went upstairs but came down. Said you were out cold.”

Dean rolls his eyes then, but Sam sees a flash of embarrassment in his pretty eyes. “Don’t freak me out like that, Sammy, geese.” 

“You didn’t seem that freaked,” Sam mutters.

He knows he sounds petulant, but it enrages every fiber of his being that Dean might let some little kid like Cas touch him but remains completely disgusted at the thought of Sam’s lips on his skin. 

“M’tired,” Dean excuses. 

Sam watches as his baby brother, his little angel, settles across the table. Dean knocks his bare feet against Sam’s knees and smiles, all sleepy, blinding sunshine. Sam smiles back at him and knows, without a doubt, he’s going to do it again. He’s had a taste of Dean, of the body he has raised and protected, the body owed to him, and he’s going in for another bite. 

He’s not going to wait for the opportunity to tumble into his mouth again, though. Plans start swirling in his mind. It’s going to be so easy to do it again he realizes. His breathing quickens in time with his heartbeat.

Dean begins to mutter about more about the parts of his night he can remember, and Sam nods, grins and laughs in all the right places, but his brain is spinning. It doesn’t take long for him to realize how he’s going to get his pretty angel beneath him again. 

“This summer is going to be so awesome,” Dean says between mouthfuls of cereal. “Best ever. Right, Sammy?”

“Right, buddy,” Sam answers honestly. “Best ever.” 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's earned the right to have Dean, if only for a moment (he has). He deserves Dean, if only in the dark (he does).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam is a little crazier in this chapter and starts losing his grip on morality. Also I'm sure everyone remembers, but Casey is the demon in 3.04 who tells Dean she would have followed San if he had been the leader of the demon army. 
> 
> As another quick note, this is probably a pretty unrealistic depiction of roofie use. I have no idea how one would actually go about buying it and I'm pretty sure its extended use would cause some physical/mental damage to the drugged person. So. Yeah.
> 
> Please leave kudos or comments! <3

Patience has never been a mark on Sam's list of virtues (a list which he can admit is dwindling). He texts Lucy (whose real name is Marcus, who won't sell to anyone who actually refers to him by his mundane name, who Sam just can't bring himself to actually call Lucifer) that afternoon.  
  
 _I need to pick up some new supplies._  
  
Lucy, who is the most reliable dealer Sam knows, texts him back two hours later.  
  
 _meet me at the palace in 30_  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. The 'palace' is a bottom floor, bottom feeder apartment in a half empty part of town. No one bothers anyone else there, though, and the shadiest people he knows reside there.  
  
"I'm headed out for a while."  
  
Dean barely glances from his Modern Warfare screen.  
  
"God dammit Ash, I told you to meet me at the house. Get out of the woods and into - fuck." He slides his headset off and tosses it with a huff to the other end of the couch. "Last game we get to play today and I die more than anyone else. That shit ain't right."  
  
Watching other people play games has always been boring for Sam, but watching Dean play is one of the most entertaining and amusing pass times he has. Dean's pretty mouth spits ugly words and it's more adorable than menacing. The voice Dean tries so hard to deepen goes shrill with frustration and he sounds so young it's sweet and heart twisting at the same time (a little enthralling, too, because Sam can almost hear the whines and moans Dean would make while Sam licked his cock, fingered him too slow, fucked him too fast). Heat flushes Dean's face when he gets really frustrated, really angry, and it's a ridiculous, gorgeous sight to see.  
  
"It's summer. I thought all Ash did during summer was play this game with you."  
  
Dean leans into the coach and sulks. His mouth forms a little pout. The plush flush of that pout used to twist Sam into knots. He would watch Dean's mouth slack and he would want so desperately to bite the bottom lip, suck it until it was red and until Dean couldn't frown, couldn't pout, could only beg.  
  
Sam doesn't know if the wanting is worse or better now that he knows what that pout, those lips, taste like. The bitterness of the ache is better now, though, infinitely better now that he knows he isn't going to be completed denied the feeling, the taste of those lips forever. Now that he knows he is going to kiss, lick and bite them again.  
  
"Not since he joined that stupid play. I told him Meg wouldn't fuck him even if he did it, but he did it anyway, and now he's gonna spend the next month at the community theater being her boy bitch. Pilled out bitch, ruining my summer." He crosses his arms and sinks further into his sullen mood. Shaking his head, he meets Sam's gaze for the first time since he came into the game room. "I think she must be a cracked out bitch, too. You know Cas said she didn't even remember talking to you the other night?"  
  
Sam straightens a little awkwardly, trying not to let his stance or expression betray his nerves. He completely forgot about the little white lie he spun. "Yeah," he agrees, a little too quick and high  
pitched. "She is... definitely a bitch."  
  
Dean nods in solemn agreement. "Not that Cas isn't half cracked out, too. He said you're the one who told him I was out cold." He shakes his head, then grins his sweet, cheeky grin, the one that makes him look like he's a little boy trying to get twins into bed. "That kid is a space fucking cadet." Still smiling, he moves his index fingers around his head and crosses his eyes.  
  
Sam laughs. Dean is so sweetly ridiculous. His humor, generally crude and crass, isn't really Sam's style, but something about the fact that it's Dean, his angel, always makes him smile.  
  
"How 'bout this," he says, stepping into the room so he can stand behind the couch. He hovers above his brother's shoulders and can't stop thinking about the other night, about straddling Dean's body and finally, finally having him. Dean tilts his head so he is staring backwards up at Sam. "I gotta run out for a while, so you find something to entertain yourself for a few hours and when I get back we can go see a movie. I'll even spring for the big popcorn."  
  
Dean grins at him. "Sounds awesome." Sam grins back (wants to bend down and drop an upside down kiss to Dean's forehead, his mouth). "But Garth is gonna come over in a bit and we're gonna go play D &D at Charlie's. Should be an all nighter."  
  
Sam tries to hide his disappointment (his anger) with a tight smile."Sounds like a big night."  
  
"Yeah, yeah. I know you think it's lame, but that's because you're retarded. D&D is the coolest game ever. You wish you were awesome enough to like it."  
  
"Totally," Sam teases, keeping his voice light as his irritation burns. Dean never spends Sunday nights out, not even during summer. Sunday's are their nights, their dinner and a movie brother nights.  
  
"Hey," Dean says, voice and expression softening. He shifts so he can look at Sam properly. "That's cool, right? I know we usually - "  
  
"Of course it's cool, man." Sam fakes a smile. "I'll just call Jess. See if she wants to go for a ride."  
  
Dean wriggles his eyebrows. Sam digs his nails into his palm until it stings.  
  
-

Sam doesn't expect much of a reaction when he asks for twenty hits of Rohypnol. Lucy almost always fucks with his expectations, though, and he feels a subtle crawl over his skin as shadowed eyes stare at him.

  
"Roofies," Lucy says blankly. "Seriously?"  
  
The shudder brushing the hair on Sam's arms bristles. It feels like guilt breathing heavy on his skin, but it can't be, because Sam isn't doing anything to feel guilty for; he's not doing anything wrong.  
  
He's earned this (he  _has_ ).  
  
He deserves this (he  _does_ ).  
  
"Seriously," he answers, holding his gaze and body steady.  
  
"Seriously?"  
  
Sam clenches his jaw. He really, really isn't in the mood for the games Lucy always wants to play with him.  
  
"Do you have the product or not?" he snaps.  
  
Lucy's eyes widen in sardonic surprise. Amusement and a slither of satisfaction darken his features even further. He slides back on the tanned leather couch, switching the cross of his legs as his smirk digs deep through the center of the earth. (Times like these, Sam thinks Lucy really could be the Devil in disguise).  
  
 "A little touchy today Sammy? You know if you're not old enough to talk about, you're not old enough to buy it."  
  
Bristling, Sam automatically narrows his eyes and says, "Don't call me that."  
  
Lucy's Diablo grin widens. "Sorry. I forgot there's only one person who can get away with calling you that. How is your adorable baby brother, by the way?"  
  
Sam stands so fast he nearly knocks the end table from its legs. Fury quakes through him. It would be a little more than suicide to beat Lucy's smug face to the bone, but it doesn't stop Sam from imagining it.  
  
"I know Lilith's got product," he hisses. "See you around."  
  
Rolling deadened eyes, Lucy sighs. "Oh come on now, Sam. You know I'm just messing around. Sit down."  
  
"Fuck off," Sam retorts hotly as he moves towards the door.  
  
"I'll give you a discount. Thirty hits at a reduced rate. No one in town will beat that."  
  
Sam's hand twitches on the door knob. He's never been particularly strapped for cash, but he realizes having Dean as often as he wants him (always, all the time, forever) is going to start digging into his savings more than keeping a steady flow of bud and booze ever has.  
  
"I won't even judge you for it," Lucy adds, which makes Sam straighten his spine and snap his neck so quickly his bones, his heart, creaks. When they meet gazes, Lucy just smiles. "Hey. We all have our vices, right? What's a little sin in a world of sickness?"  
  
Heart shaking, brain pounding, Sam walks back towards the couch. There is no way Lucy, as twisted and strangely knowing as he always is, knows why Sam wants the pills. There is no way at all. Even if he thinks Sam is going to use the pills himself, there is no way he can guess whose drinks Sam will be slipping them into.  
  
"They're not for me," Sam says solemnly. He doesn't sit again, but he does move to stand a few feet away from Lucy's position on the couch.  
  
Lucy nods in condescending disbelief. "Sure they're not, kid."  
  
Sam doesn't say another word throughout the exchange. Whatever Lucy is thinking, it's wrong. Lucy doesn't know Sam, doesn't know Dean, doesn't know SamandDean, DeanandSam. Lucy may believe that this is a sin, but Sam knows in his bones it's not.  
  
He's earned the right to have Dean, if only for a few moments (he  _has_ ).  
  
He deserves Dean, if only in the dark (he  _does_ ).  
  
 -  
  
It's two days before Sam has another chance to hold his angel in his arms.

The wait is excruciating, but the reward makes everything, every ache,every pang, worth it.  
  
 -  
  
Anna turns seventeen and every kid in a five-mile radius shows up to celebrate at the Milton's manor.  
  
The rag-tag group Dean leads is huddled by the pool. Jo is sitting on Ash's shoulder while Dean sits, shirtless and beautiful as the water and moonlight plays over his chest, laughing and kicking his bare feet in the water.  
  
Sam watches from the kitchen. His tongue itches to lick the chlorine from Dean's skin. He's half hard in his trunks already as he thinks of spreading Dean's lithe limbs on his bed, of sliding the swim trunks from his hips and finally finding out if the pink of Dean's nipples is as sweet as the pink of Dean's mouth. He has to press himself into the counter and think of Dr. Crowley to soften enough to go back to the party.  
  
He's about to step outside with his and Dean's Bud's when Castiel flutters to his side.  
  
"Fuck," Sam mutters in surprise as he turns to find bright blue eyes watching him. "Jesus. Dean's right. We need to put a freakin' cat bell on you."  
  
Cas doesn't respond to the comment. Instead, he asks, "Why did you tell Dean I went into his room the other night?"  
  
Frustration bubbles through Sam's throat, but he manages to hold his sigh. He doesn't have the time or the energy for Cas and his intensity right now.  
  
 (He ignores the subtle twinge of panic in his gut; Dean already knows Cas is weird and trusts Sam, loves him, beyond anything in the world. The thought shifts his gentle anxiety into a smug thread. It eases his breathing to remind himself that when it comes down to it, Dean will choose Sam over Cas, over anyone, every time).  
  
The smile Sam flashes is completely genuine. If Cas wants to play this, then fine: it's not like Sam can lose, not if Dean is referee  (the prize). He leans against the counter.  
  
 "Huh?"  
  
 Cas's expression doesn't so much as stutter. "Dean texted me yesterdya and asked if there was anyone with him in his room when I found him asleep. I told him I didn't go into his room, that you were the one  who told me he was - "  
  
"I think you're a little confused," Sam says sincerely. He furrows his  brow and keeps his mouth twisted lightly. "But hey, man, we were all pretty wasted that night, right?"  
  
He pushes off the counter and moves to the door, but Cas takes a quick step and places himself between the outdoor entrance and Sam's frame. It's irritating until Sam straightens to his full height. He looms over the teen and Cas hunches his shoulders.  
  
"I was not that...wasted," Cas says quietly.  
  
Sam expects to be annoyed as Cas presses, but he finds himself amused. He shrugs.  
  
"Meg," the teen begins, then stops. Sam watches in amusement as he takes a steadying breath. "She said she never spoke to you."  
  
"Meg's so pilled out she doesn't even know her own name half the time," Sam explains. "Ask Dean."  
  
Cas drops his gaze to the floor. Sam thinks it's the end of the conversation, but when he moves to side-step the kid, Cas finally meets his eyes.  
  
"You lied."  
  
Sam's glare narrows, hardens.  
  
"I think you're confused."  
  
"I believe you lied."  
  
Clenching his teeth, he steps forward. He looks down at Cas. Before he has the chance to speak, to let Cas know he really, really isn't on the level to play with Sam, a shriek erupts from outside.  
  
They both turn their heads. Outside, Sam sees Dean laughing and twirling a screaming Meg on his shoulders. Dean looks gorgeous, carefree and joyful and mischievous. Sam's heart pulses. It's been his hard work that has given Dean that carelessness, that joy. Sam is owed a taste of it.  
  
Dean throws Meg into the pool. He falls to his knees, holding his stomach as he laughs. Sam can hear her cursing him through the echoes of giggles and the walls.  
  
When Dean looks up, his grin is as wide and deep as the love, lust, Sam holds for him. Once again, Sam is struck by how god damn pretty his baby brother is, by how much he wants him.  
  
Tonight, Sam gets to have him.  
  
He walks past Cas without another glance.  
  
 -  
  
 Dean is already wobbling in his flip flops as he and Sam walk to the Impala.  
  
"Thanks for grabbing me a drink to go," Dean says as he gulps another drink of cowboy Cool-Aid. "Strawberry rum is the best invention ever.  Whoever decided to mix it with Cool-Aid is a god damn genius."  
  
Sam smiles. Just for fun, he says, "I think that was Cas. He's the one who handed it to me."  
  
 -  
  
 By the time they get home, Dean is asleep.  
  
Sam takes a moment to watch the gentle rise and fall of his brother's bare chest. He traces the silver lines of moonlight spilling through the window with his eyes, then takes a deep breath to resist following the shine with his hands.  
  
Curled in on himself, bathed in light and clad in light blue swim trunks, his angel looks almost too beautiful to touch.  
  
It's easy to maneuver Dean from the Impala. It's easy to carry him to the front door (a little awkward getting it open, but it's unlocked because bad things just don't happen in neighborhoods like this) and it's easy to get him upstairs to his room.  
  
It's the easiest thing Sam has ever done to spread him across the bed.  
  
After Sam has Dean on the sheets, he flips on the light and dims it just enough to see the trail of hair down Dean's belly. He's hard in his own trunks, has been since they left the party, but he makes himself walk slowly to the edge of the bed. He wants to savor this, to be able to remember every detail, every breath and touch, in the morning.  
  
Dean breathes and draws Sam's gaze to his chest. Sam glides his hands up, skin moving through silk, until he reaches the dusky nipples that had pebbled with pool water earlier.  
  
He had wanted to lick the droplets from them earlier, hear Dean's breath hitch, suck them until they tasted of his own mouth instead of chlorine.  
  
Now, he sweeps both thumbs over the nubs. Dean shifts a little, face twisting, but no noise leaves his perfect mouth. It's frustrating in a way Sam hadn't anticipated, not being able to hear the moans and groans he knows he could coax from a conscious, participating, eager Dean.  
  
He draws little circles, watching as Dean's nipples stiffen. The feeling of them rising under his thumbs ratchets his already unbearable desire. He has to press one palm to his stiff cock, and  
when he does, he can't help but lean forward and taste Dean's chest.  
  
Sam flicks the bud with the tip of his tongue. He groans, rubbing his hand against himself more firmly as he licks again. He switches sides after a few moments, bringing the rough pads of his fingers to one spit slick nipple while he lowers his mouth to the other. It's an awkward angle, bites at the muscles of his neck, but he can't be bothered to think of comfort now. He can't think of anything, really, but the taste and feel of Dean's nipple under his tongue, under his fingers.  
  
He moves to change sides again, but is taken in by the slick apple red of Dean's chest.

The picture is more than sinful, but he can't help but wonder if he could get those pretty little nipples even redder, stiffer and slicker and pulsing with blood. He can't help but wonder how it would look, how hot it would feel in his mouth (if Dean would make a noise, then; if Dean would finally whimper and squirm like Sam so desperately wants him to).  
  
The first scrape of his teeth on his baby brother's chest is gentle. He glides half over the nipple, half over sweet skin. He manages to keep the pressure light until a breathy pant finally (finally,  
finally, finallyfinally) leaves Dean's mouth. The sound spikes his blood, his lust, and he fastens his upper and lower teeth around the hot skin. He bites, not as hard as he could, but enough to pull a soft whine from his brother. He sucks to soothe the pain, but he can't stop the pressure of his teeth in the nipple. It feels too good to stop.  
  
When he starts feeling like he can't breathe, he moves to the other nipple. He scrapes, bites, sucks, until it's as red as the other.

(He might actually bite a little harder, a little longer, suck the nub a little deeper, but his frenzy is beginning to spill over; he can't help it).  
  
Sam takes a moment to admire his work. He bites his lip to stifle his groan. Dean looks like a Greek statue breathed to life by Aphrodite herself most of the time, but breathing heavy, nipples red and peaked, cock a hard line in his swim trunks, Dean is a fucking masterpiece. (Sam's masterpiece; Sam made him, Sam is the only one who can have him like  
this).  
  
Sam stands to pull off his shirt and push his trunks down. He thought he would feel more anxiety, even terror, at stripping so completely. It's an unnecessary risk but any sense of  
caution or self-preservation has been shot light years away. The first night opened the floodgates and Sam has already been swept so deeply into the undertow, he can't even remember air in his lungs, can't even feel nervous or apprehensive.  
  
He steps forward and runs his hands over Dean's bare legs. His fingers drift behind Dean's left knee. In his sleep, Dean twitches. Fondness pulses alongside the lust in Sam's heart. The urge to tickle Dean like he used to hits him, softening his more immediate urges. He wants to kiss Dean sweetly instead of deep and messy, wants to drag his nose along Dean's elbows and ears until he giggles instead of leaving bite marks on his thighs and necks, wants to pin Dean until he cries  
'uncle' and laugh when Dean surges up and tries to beat him again. He wants to tell Dean he loves him.  
  
Then reality hits, cold and biting. Dean would bite Sam's lips bloody before he let Sam press them to his mouth. Dean would fling his limbs if Sam ever tried to kiss them. Dean shrugs off play fighting and wrestling now that he's not a kid anymore. Dean would jab Sam's arm and tell him to lay off the chick flicks if Sam said he loved him.

And if Sam tried to tell him how he really loved him, Dean would run so fast and so far away. Dean wouldn't love him anymore at all.  
  
Sam pulls off Dean's swim trunks and his movements are a little harsher than he means them to be. It doesn't matter, though, since Dean doesn't know, won't know. He can be as rough or as gentle as he wants, can make this hurt Dean (not that he ever would; he never would) or make Dean come so many times he soaks his bed sheets, and it doesn't matter.  
  
(If this doesn't matter, he wonders bitter and terrified and desolate, what does?)  
  
He shakes himself from his poorly timed existential ache by drinking in the sight of his angel, naked and hard and perfect, spread like a feast before him.  
  
Before he straddles his brother, he takes another moment to run his hands along Dean's skin. Dean looks so small, precious, under the rough stretch of his hands. Sam just wants to cherish him, not hurt him, and he doesn't understand how Dean can't understand that.

He runs his palms along Dean's thing calves, along his thighs. He would make Dean feel so incredible if he was awake, if he would let this happen.  
  
He trails his fingers over the hot length of Dean's cock. Dean isn't fully erect yet, but he's blood thick and warm enough that Sam's mouth waters. If Dean would let him, he could suck Dean down so good, he could make his little brother cry.  
  
Licking his lips, he realizes he doesn't have to be completely denied the chance. He might not be able to hear Dean's cries, see the tears roll pretty down his cheeks, but he can probably still make Dean whine for it, even knocked out and fucked up as he is.  
  
He settles on his knees at the edge of the bed. Bracing his hands on Dean's thighs, he runs his cheek over Dean's dick, feeling the softness and the warmth. Dean's cock twitches against his skin and Sam makes a soft noise as he turns his head to brush his lips over the scorching head.

He flicks his tongue along the slit. His brother isn't wet, isn't leaking for him yet, but Sam knows he can get him there.  
  
At first Sam just uses his lips. He moves them up and down, learning the fire and silk of his little brother's dick. Then he tastes, because he has to, and he isn't at all disappointed when he swallows the first few inches of Dean's cock and his mouth is flooded with sweet, chlorine dusted musk.  
  
He sucks the rest of the length down. It's a little uncomfortable, because Dean is full and thick and Sam doesn't do this often. He's always known the boys he pins to his bed won't be as good as Dean, won't sound as gorgeous when they come and won't taste as mouth watering. He can't help but think how fucking right he was as he buries his nose into the light hair around Dean's cock.  
  
After a few awkward sucks, after Sam has to pull back for a moment and catch his breath, he finds his rhythm. Little moans and heavy breaths fall from Dean's velvet mouth like a symphony.

And it is a symphony, another masterpiece.  
  
Sam can see it: Dean's skin as smooth as the gold velvet ropes, Dean's mouth and nipples and cock as red as the crimson curtains and seats, Dean's whimpers as beautiful and resounding as the most tragic of sopranos. Dean spread on stage and Sam his audience. Dean performing,  
just for him; Dean coming, just for him.  
  
It's so damn decadent it's almost embarrassing (Dean would accuse him of reading of watching too many musicals, or something).

The fantasy is a far cry from the reality of Sam having to pull every moan from his unconscious little brother and that's a little embarrassing, too, and more than little frustrating. Sam sucks Dean's cock harder. He hollows his cheeks and his throat until his jaw starts to ache.  
  
Dean's body, which had been shifting lightly under Sam's ministrations, begins to shake. His hips twitch and he presses forward. Sam can almost pretend Dean is awake, fucking into his mouth because he's just as eager and desperate to come as Sam is to make him.  
  
When Dean finally comes down his throat, Sam can almost imagine Dean moaning his name.  
  
-  
  
The next morning, Sam doesn't want to get out of bed. He fights waking for hours, lying under the covers and stacking pillows on his head.  
  
He thinks of the night before. He thinks of the aftertaste of Dean in his mouth.  
  
He  thinks, remembers, the feeling of kissing his way up Dean's lax body, dipping his tongue into Dean's mouth again and kissing him until his own mouth was numb.  
  
He grips his cock and moans as he remembers the way his dick looked gliding against Dean's so soft, kiss bitten lips.  
  
Dean's mouth was slick and hot and felt so good sliding against the pulsing skin of Sam's cock. Sam had moved the dripping, drooling head along Dean's bottom lip, then left sticky trails of pre-come all along Dean's angelic face and damning mouth. He'd run the burning length of  
his dick over Dean's slick cheekbones, down the delicate column of his neck to the hollow of his throat, even against the flutter of his lashes.  
  
Then he had pressed the flared head right against Dean's teeth, felt Dean's lips flutter around his skin as he jerked himself to the sight and feeling of his angel. He had come burning strings and spread them messily over Dean's mouth.  
  
Afterwards, he had panted into the arch of Dean's shoulder. He had moved his fingers through the come on Dean's lips and imagined the whines Dean would make if he'd been awake ( _that's gross Sam, get me a towel, get this stuff off me, no, not with your tongue, ew_ ) because Dean was a lion turned pretty, whimpering kitten in the face of anything unsanitary.  
  
He had gotten a towel, then, wet it and wiped the evidence of himself from Dean's skin. His hands moved methodical while his heart thumped erratic.  
  
Sam gets himself off again to the memory. His orgasm is dizzying.  
  
It takes another half hour to push himself from the covers. He moves lazy and dazed as he throws on a pair of sweats and pads down the hall.  
  
There are three bathrooms in the house. Dean's assigned bathroom is on the first floor but he usually ends up using Dad's (not like the man is there enough to notice) or Sam's, because he's too lazy and too petulant to go down the stairs so early in the morning. Sam doesn't exactly expect to see Dean standing in front of his sink with the door cracked half open, but he isn't surprised either.  
  
Then the image of Dean in the mirror shifts. Sam stops moving. Dean's face is scrunched in confusion then shudders in a brief flash of pain. Sam sidesteps a few times to see Dean's body and reflection. He watches as his little brother brushes his fingertips over his nipples, which are  
mottled red and purple, and winces.

Sam must have bit hard enough to break the delicate vessels, to bruise.  
  
Dean winces again and Sam feels a trickle of sympathy (not much). He finally feels an inkling of guilt (he didn't mean to hurt Dean, he didn't, but it's not like he hurt him badly, not really).  
  
The guilt is tinged with bitterness, though, because if Dean had been awake, had just _let_  Sam taste him, he could have told Sam when to stop, when it stung too much. Sam would have eased the grip of his teeth, would have licked the burns (and if that hadn't soothed Dean,  
then Sam would have licked his cock until his brother wasn't even thinking of the ache in his nipples).  
  
"Mornin'," Sam greets from the hall.  
  
Dean jumps.  
  
"Jesus fuck, don't sneak up on me like that," Dean hisses, narrow his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. "You and Cas, I swear, are gonna give me a god damn heart attack."  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. "You're fifteen, kid. I think you'll be okay." Dean flips him off, and his only response is a wide grin (Dean is so adorable when he's angry, all Sam wants to do is smile and kiss him).

"There a reason you commandeered my bathroom?"  
  
"Outta body wash. And shampoo. And I..." Dean trails off, shifting on his feet. When he looks down, Sam steals another glance at his bitten nipples. He wants to suck them back into his mouth. "Did I - are you sure I didn't hook up with anyone the other night?"  
  
Shrugging, Sam answers, "I really don't know, man." Dean nods but looks unconvinced, confused. Feeling bold, Sam steps into the doorway. "Looks like someone did a number on you," he teases, reaching out to pinch the sore nipples.  
  
Dean dances away like Sam knew he would, pushes Sam's hands and tells him to fuck off like Sam knew he would, but Sam still feels a flare of frustration that he can't touch his work.  
  
"You're just jealous that I get so much action," Dean mutters. He crosses his arms over his chest again and meets Sam's eyes. His expression is open, so wide, Sam thinks he can see his own yearning reflected back at him. "I would...I mean, someone would remember...this, right?"  
  
The softest hint of color brushes against Dean’s cheeks as he gestures briefly to his chest. Dean has never been shy about sex, never blushed around sharing the dirty details with his brother (or anyone who would listen, really), but the state of his nipples has left him flustered in a way Sam has never seen.

Lust bites Sam’s veins and he shifts on his feet.  
  
Schooling his features into amusement, Sam raises his eyebrows. "Uh, yeah. I'm pretty sure I'd remember if someone decided to use my chest as a chew toy."  
  
Sam expects a glare (he gets it), but he doesn't expect the way Dean bites his lip and drops his gaze to the floor after he shoots it.  
  
"Hey," Sam soothes. He steps forward and places his hand on Dean's bare shoulder (he remembers how, weeks ago, his chest would tighten and stutter at such a pitiful sliver of contact; now he knows how Dean's nipple feels between his teeth, how Dean's cock feels in his  
throat, how the mushroom head of his own dick feels resting in Dean's mouth). "People get wasted, hook up, don't remember. It's okay. It doesn't make you any more of a man-whore than before."  
  
Dean smiles a little, but he still looks shaken.  
  
"I've never not remembered," he says quietly. "I've never been that out of it. You always taught me better than that." He shakes his head. "Guess there's a first time for everything, right? I just wish I could remember who this chick was so I never hit it again. M'fucking sore."  
  
Sam ushers Dean out of the bathroom then. He tries to ignore the burn of Dean's unknowing rejection.  
  
He jerks off again in the shower. He grips himself hard enough to sting and when he comes, he slams his fist against the tile.

-

  
It's three in the afternoon by the time they both get dressed and find themselves lounging in the living room.  
  
"You know what we should do today?" Dean asks.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Get banana splits."  
  
Sam blinks before breaking into laughter.  
  
"Why is that funny? That's not funny. Stop laughing."  
  
"Okay," Sam laughs. "You wanna go to the park after? I can push you on the swing set?"  
  
-  
  
Sam hasn't taken his brother to get ice cream at Greenburg's Drug in years.

Honestly, he misses it.

The store has that '50's feel, black and white checkered floors and metal tables and light blue booths. There was always a pretty girl with curled hair behind the counter, and Dean could always sweet talk them into giving him more ice cream and toppings than they were supposed to.

They came here before Dean recruited the majority of his little friends. It was just Dean and Sam, then. Perfect.  
  
"Man," Sam says when he pushes the door open, nostalgia and air conditioning hitting his skin. "I can't remember the last time I was in here."  
  
As they walk in, a girl behind the counter (Sam had her in some of his classes; Melanie, he thinks, Michelle maybe, Madison) is handing a kid a banana split. Sam's stomach grumbles.  
  
"That looks awesome," Dean sighs. He grins at Sam as they slide into a booth. "Good idea, huh?"  
  
"Yeah," Sam mumbles, making a show of rolling his eyes, but he knows his fondness must show in his smile, because Dean's grin brightens. "Alright, I'll go order us - hey. Isn't that, like...everyone you know?"  
  
Sam nods towards the back. The pharmacy is separated from the ice cream parlor by a row of tables. He can see a flock of teenagers around them. Ash's mullet catches his eyes and he sees Jo next to him. He spots Cas, too (he frowns), Casey, Cassie, Lisa, Charlie, Anna, Balt, Gabriel  
and Zach. Meg is at the center.  
  
"Huh," Dean says, a slack look on his face. "What a coincidence."  
  
"Dean."  
  
"What? It's just a. Fine. I may have known the cast of Meg's stupid little play thing were coming here after rehearsal today."  
  
"So you're...what? Crashing an after party?"  
  
"This isn't an after party," Dean huffs. "And I'm not...crashing. I'm just here."  
  
Sam raises an eyebrow.  
  
"No one invited me. Just because I'm not in their stupid - and I can't emphasize how stupid - thing, I don't get to go eat ice cream. It's stupid. So I'm crashing. We're crashing. No big deal."  
  
"Crashing a high school ice cream party," Sam mutters. "I can't believe you've made me an accomplice in crashing an ice cream party."  
  
"Have you _seen_ the way Casey eats ice cream? Like I was gonna miss that just because I'm not invited."  
  
Of course, Sam thinks in amusement and disbelief and not a small twinge of jealousy. Of course Dean would drag him to the pharmacy to crash an ice cream social he wasn't invited to so he could watch a girl obscenely finish a cone.  
  
"You..." Sam mutters. "You are unbelievable."  
  
"I know," Dean grins, winking.  
  
"I'm going to put in our orders."  
  
Sam sighs heavily as he walks up to the counter. The girl (Madison, her name tag says Madison) smiles at him.  
  
"Hey," Sam greets with a dimpled smile. "Haven't seen you around lately. How are you?"  
  
"Working as the ice cream girl at a small town pharmacy," she answers with a self-deprecating grin. It's lovely. She's lovely. (He imagines Dean's answer would be similar, only with a few more curses thrown in, and more swagger to his smirk, to his gaze, the kind that makes girls giggle and blush). "How about you?"  
  
"Wishing I was as good as you," he says honestly.  
  
She smiles back. Her lips stretch wide and inviting. Her mouth isn't as full as Deans, and Sam imagines it would taste like lipstick, sticky and thick, instead of salty and sweet.  
  
"What can I get for you?"  
  
"Two banana splits." He glances over his shoulder at his brother, who is slumped over the table, no doubt entranced by the way Casey curls her tongue over the scoop of her yogurt twist. "And extra napkins."  
  
"Coming right up."  
  
She winks, and all Sam can see are Dean's emerald eyes shining.  
  
Sam heads back to the table. When he moves to take his seat, Dean's hand shoots out and pulls him into the booth.  
  
"Okay, what the fuck." Sam can feel anger and embarrassment flushing his skin. He's pressed close against Dean in the booth, their knees knocking together, and rationally he knows Dean just wants an uninterrupted view of Casey but his stomach is still flipping at the feeling of Dean pulling him close.  
  
"Shh," Dean murmurs. "Magic is happening."  
  
Sam rolls his eyes again. He thinks of going back up to the counter, but his gaze drifts to the back of the pharmacy. He can't help but want to see what Dean finds so insanely enticing (can't help but hate the dark haired girl smirking over her ice cream cone at his baby brother).  
  
Casey is dragging her tongue along the vanilla of the cone. She looks directly at their table as she pushes the tip into the chocolate, swirling the yogurt together.  
  
"Have you ever wanted to be yogurt more in your entire life?" Dean breathes. "Jesus fuckin' Christ."  
  
"This is gross," Sam mutters.  
  
He looks down and takes in Dean's slack jawed expression. His brother's eyes are glazed and his mouth is open. There is no attempt to hide his interest, his blatant lust. Casey doesn't know how special she is to have Dean look at her like that (doesn't know that there are some people who would do unspeakable things to get Dean to turn that expression to them).  
  
Madison delivers their banana splits plus two handfuls of napkins. Sam explains they're for the drool. Dean doesn't look up from the show he's watching to glare at them.  
  
It's an effort not to put his arm around Dean, glare in the girl's direction, tell her his baby brother is off limits.  
  
By the time Casey is finished with her cone, Sam feels physically and mentally ill.  
  
"Can we go now?" Sam asks. "Can I at least go to the other side of the booth?"

Dean's hand flies to his knee. He grips it tight and Sam feels like he can't breathe against the heat that seeps from Dean's palm through his jeans.  
  
"Don't move. Don't you dare."  
  
Shifting, Sam tries to keep his dick from rising as he says, "Dean, I just - "  
  
Before he can finish his sentence, Casey is sliding into the booth across from them. Dean looks so damn hopeful and eager, like a puppy, and he squeezes Sam's knee as if he's trying to calm himself. Sam wants to put his hand over his brother's and squeeze right back. He  
doesn't.

He does look down at Dean’s hand on him. Breathing heavily, he can’t help but imagine what it would be like for Dean to touch him back at night. His eyes travel from Dean’s hand to Dean’s own leg, then further. He bites the inside of his lip when he sees the bulge in Dean’s jeans.

 

Jealousy and want shudder molten through his bones. Why can’t Dean pulse hot and hard for _him_? Why can’t he get Dean to touch him like this out of his own violation, because he wants to feel Sam’s skin under him?

  
"Hey," Casey says casually. Sam wants to bang his head into the table.  
  
"Hey," Dean responds, equally casual, like he isn't thickening in his jeans and shifting in his seat and holding onto Sam's knee like it's the only thing keeping him from flying apart.  
  
"Fancy seeing you here," she smirks.

 

Her eyes are alight with the same airy flirtation that often shines in Dean’s own gaze. But Dean, perverse as he may be, has always had a splash of innocence in his come hither glances. There has always been something young, something carefree and sweet, something fun, in his flirtations. All Sam finds in Casey's face is hunger and darkness.  
  
"Ah, well," Dean mumbles. He slip slides over his own smoothness, sometimes. Sam likes it when Dean's cool shakes. It's beautiful. "You know, just me and my big bro today. He really wanted a banana split."  
  
Sam knocks their knees together. Dean grimaces. They glance at each other, tense, but Casey's voice draws both of their attentions.  
  
"That's sweet," she says, but she's looking at Dean. "Hey, my folks are out of town for vacation. They were gonna take me with them but I couldn't go; the play, you know."  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I know."  
  
"So I'm having a thing tomorrow night. It was gonna be cast only but...I think I could make an exception. You guys should stop by."  
  
"Well," Sam interrupts, because even though he can see the golden opportunity to tumble Dean underneath him again, he can’t take the palpable tension between them anymore. "If it's cast only..."  
  
Dean digs his fingers into Sam's leg. He cuts a glare up at his brother for a moment before softening his features and bringing them to Casey.  
  
"There's gonna be ice cream," she smirks.  
  
"We'll be there," Dean answers quickly. Fingers still pressing into Sam's knee, he prompts, "Right, Sammy?"  
  
"Sure," Sam grits. "Sure. We'll be there."  
  
-  
  
It's a pre-party tradition to show up to the Winchester's an hour before arrival time to play video games, take shots, and talk through any last minute strategies for not ending the night alone. Sam started the tradition, but when he has a handful of teenagers scampering under  
his feet, he wishes he hadn't.  
  
Dean is in the middle seat, sandwiched between Garth and Cas. Sam sits on the sidearm next to Garth. It gives him the perfect range to peer over their heads and make sure Cas's hands are curled neatly in his lap.  
  
"So what the hell was that with you and Casey the other day?" Jo asks from the loveseat where she and Charlie are curled.  
  
"What was what with who and Casey when?" Garth asks.  
  
"Oh, Casey just went down on ice cream cone while she and Dean eye fucked across the pharmacy after rehearsals the other day," Ash grins.  
  
Jo shudders in her seat. "And it was disgusting."  
  
"And it was _awesome_ ,” Dean corrects. He falls back into the couch, eyes glazing dreamy and eager. Sam wants to smack him on the head until he stops (kiss him senseless until he doesn't remember who Casey is, show him how good it can be when the person sucking his dick loves  
and cherishes him). "So, so awesome. It was possibly one of the most awesome things that has ever happened."  
  
Garth leans forward in his seat. "I thought you weren't into Casey?"  
  
Dean's head lulls so he can meet his friend's eyes. On Sam's side, Gabriel tugs at his shirt, offering him his first hit off the pipe he packed. Sam grabs it, knows he's going to need the high to disconnect him from the tumultuous evening ahead.  
  
"Uh, everyone and their dog is into Casey. Of course I'm into her."  
  
"Casey..." Gabriel says. His red eyes roll under the strain of thought. "Oh, Casey; that Casey. I know Casey. Let me give you a heads up, short stuff," he begins, nodding to Dean. "That girl likes it rough. I'm talking leaving bruises rough."  
  
Something flickers over Dean's face, nervousness or surprise, but he schools his features quickly as Garth passes him the pipe.  
  
"Hey, I can like it rough," Dean says, but Sam can hear the warble in his voice.  
  
"I heard she likes going  _down_  on guys," Garth adds.  
  
The strangeness in Dean's eyes shimmers to mirth and obvious excitement. "Yeah, I kinda figured that with the ice cream."  
  
Garth furrows his brow. "Oh, uh, no, not like going down like blowing a guy. She likes to go down, y'know." All eyes in the room follow Garth's hands as he tries to explain his meaning through emphatic gestures. "Y'know. From behind."  
  
"Like, suck your dick from the back?" Ash says. "I thought that was just from that movie. Are there girls who can actually do that?"  
  
"Rimming," Gabriel interjects. "He means she likes rimming. Hey, where's the Hot Damn? Are we not doing shots?"  
  
"Rimming." Garth and Ash both look at each other as they say the word, mouths quirking as they form it.  
  
Charlie giggles as she reaches for the pipe. "Did you really not know that word?" she laughs, nodding towards the boys.  
  
"How did you know what that was?" Ash mutters.  
  
"I do have the internet, y'know."  
  
"You mean she likes..." Dean begins, wrinkling his nose (Sam just wants to bite it). "Okay. Uh. I can. If that's." He shakes his head. "Okay, no, nope. There's no way I would let a girl - no. Just. No."  
  
"Don't be such a prude," Gabriel tells him. "Seriously. Shots? Anyone? Shots?"  
  
"I'm not a prude. I just - that's just unsanitary, and super gross, and I'm not letting anyone do that to me."  
  
Dean sounds resolved and disgusted. Sam's heart pulses. He feels triumphant at the idea of Dean losing interest in a girl he's been drooling over for years and a stab of discomfort, irritation when Dean shudders.   
  
"It does not...it is not as unsanitary as you may think," Cas says suddenly, softly. "There are ways one can...cleanse themselves...as an act of consideration for their partner."  
  
The room is silent for several beats. Crimson stains Cas's cheeks. Sam can't believe he said that. He watches the teen for long moments and doesn't fail to notice the small glance he cuts in Dean's direction.   
   
"How do  _you_  know that?" Dean breathes, face twisted in a grimace.  
  
Cas shrugs. Looking at the floor, he says, "I also have the internet."  
  
"I have learned things about people in this room I never, ever wanted to know," Dean laughs awkwardly.  
  
Cas's shoulders hunch.  
  
"Hey, dude, I'm not judging. If that's, uh, you're deal." Dean smiles lazy but genuine and throws his arm around Cas's drooping shoulders. "Then that's your deal. Different strokes, right dude?"  
  
Nodding, Cas offers a gentle smile. Sam can see the pain of realizing Dean is out of reach in the glance Cas casts him.  
  
It's easy to spot; he knows it well.  
  
-  
  
Sam isn't going to have Dean at the party. It seems so soon after the last time (so long, like the last time Sam was able to kiss him was centuries ago) and he doesn't want to risk being walked in on by anyone else (or worse, anyone else finding a vulnerable Dean strung out and spread for the taking).  
  
But Dean's face after he found out Casey liked rimming (which is probably capital F false, anyway) is etched into Sam's eyes and the thought of how sweet and dirty it would be to spread Dean's ass and glut himself is burnt into his brain. Sam has to excuse himself when Dean finally pulls a bottle of schnapps and starts pouring shots. He sneaks into his room, adjusts himself in his jeans and swipes a pill.  
  
-  
  
Taking Dean at the party is both easier and more complicated than Sam expected.  
  
As soon as they're through the doors, Casey is at his side. She doesn't immediately take him to her bedroom, though. She makes a show of giving him a tour, and Dean grabs Sam's wrist as they begin, smiling and whispering 'we're getting the grand tour, Sammy, c'mon'. Before they get started, Sam grabs them three Pabst's. He drops a pill into Dean's before handing them out.  
  
By the time they get to Casey's room, Dean is wobbling.  
  
"How much did you pre-game?" Casey teases gently when Dean reaches for her door handle.  
  
"Not...much," he slurs. "Oh. Bed."  
  
He stumbles across the room and slides unconsciously sensuous across the black and red bedspread. A doped down smile lifts his lips as he sinks into the comforter.  
  
Casey laughs, sounding almost genuinely fond. Sam glares at the back of her head until she turns to meet his gaze.  
  
"I think I got it from here, big guy," she says. She claps him on the shoulder before beginning to usher him out of the room.  
  
"You sure?" he asks, because this is the opposite of his plan. He thought once Dean hit the bed, Casey would wander downstairs to find her next form of entertainment, leaving a drugged Dean and her spacious bed for Sam's taking. "Dean's been having trouble - "  
  
Sam is out the door before he can finish his sentence, before he even realizes he's in the hallway. Casey is grinning cat-like and eager once he stumbles outside.  
  
"Unless you're planning on joining us..." she trails off, smirking. Sam isn't sure if she's serious or not, but his dick pulses and his rage twists. "Don't worry. I'll take very, very good care of your baby bro."  
  
With a final smile, she slams the door shut. Sam immediately plasters himself to it, ear pressed against the wood in an attempt to hear what's going on.  
  
He's struck for a moment with the terror that Casey will realize Dean is out and keep going anyway. Maybe she'll slide his shirt off, leave scratches down his back and belly. Maybe she'll see Dean's red nipples and decide she has the right to add more color to them. Maybe she'll yank his jeans down and devour him the way Sam has been fantasizing about for years.  
  
If she touches him, Sam thinks, anger flaring. If she touches him, Sam won't care if she's a minor or a girl; he'll kick her ass.  
  
Sam waits nervous and infuriated outside the door. He paces the length of the hall a few times, nods to the few people who come upstairs looking for a free bedroom or another bathroom. He clenches his fists.  
  
Ten minutes have passed when Sam decides fuck it, he's kicking the damn door in and carrying Dean bridal style out of that girl's den of depravity and back home (into his own makeshift space of sin).  
  
He strides towards the door as Casey emerges.  
  
"Hey," she says, voice edged with frustration and something that can't be concern. "I think he's down for the count. How much did he have before you guys came over?"  
  
Sam shrugs.  
  
"He can sleep it off in mine." She looks to the door. Her expression is almost forlorn, the same lost, sad look that settles onto Dean's features when he's lost a golden hook-up opportunity. "I know you Winchester's party hard, but I thought he'd at least be able to - well," she grins and shrugs her shoulders. "Never mind."  
  
She turns, dark hair swinging over her halter top, and moves to head back to the pounding of the music. Sam takes one large step forward. It's almost too easy, he thinks past the heaviness in his throat.  
  
Sam lays a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, I'm sorry. He's usually a lot better about keeping it together. He's just been...going through a lot, lately. He's not sleeping well."  
  
"Oh." She looks to the door again. It is concern Sam reads on her face, and it jolts him almost as much as it does when she says, "I don't...I mean, I understand what it's like, keeping up a bad reputation." She smiles softly. "If he doesn't want anyone to know he's having a hard time...well. I can keep a secret."  
  
It's more than too easy. It's perfect. Sam plays surprised, thankful, and nods.  
  
"Better for both of us if people think we were fucking," she adds, nonchalant, but her eyes never leave her door. "No girl wants a guy who falls asleep before they even get started, and no guy wants a slut who can't keep him awake."  
  
The easy slur jolts him. He looks from the door, from the image he can imagine of Dean passed out on silk sheets, to the girl in front of him.  
  
She raises her hand to pause him. "Hey, don't get all sentimental on me. Dean always says you're a sucker for chick flick moments." She smiles fondly.  
  
Without thinking, Sam dips his hand into his pocket to pull out his cigarette case. He slides a joint from the rung.  
  
"Here," he offers. "As thanks, for not telling anybody. And something to keep you occupied."  
  
Casey takes it without hesitation. Twirling it between red fingernails, she says, "Thanks. You wouldn't wanna...help keep me occupied?"  
  
Sam shakes his head no, giving a tight smile that gives nothing of his inner anger away.  
  
He watches as she slips into another room.  
  
"You take good care of him," Casey says with a wink before shutting the door.  
  
His chest feels heavy as he steps into Casey's room and locks the door behind him. He tries not to think about her words, the salacious smirk on her red lips or the heat that crawled through him as she winked (the shame, but not shame, because he has nothing to be ashamed of; he doesn't, and if he did, Casey couldn't know...no one could).  
  
Dean is passed out on his stomach. His face is smushed into the pillow. Sam smiles, bemused, and presses his fingers into Dean's plumped cheek. When Dean was younger, Sam would pinch his cheeks and try to kiss the tiny marks he left away. Dean never let him. Now as Sam leans into lick a stripe across Dean's pretty face, Dean doesn't have a choice.  
  
Sam takes a moment to lament not having the opportunity to strip Dean completely again, but it's far too much of a risk. He kisses the top of Dean's head before moving to straddle him.  
  
Sam's cock twitched to life as soon as he shut the door. He slides over Dean's bottom back, legs bracketing him on either side, then moves down. He rubs himself against the denim clad cleft of Dean's ass. There is nothing keeping him too quiet, but he does attempt to stifle his groan as he grinds against Dean's slack body.  
  
Still circling his hips, he slides the back of Dean's t-shirt up and leans down. He licks between Dean's shoulder blades before dipping lower, tasting the freckles splattered across his back. When he reaches the small of Dean's back, he takes a long, slow lick up Dean's spine. Underneath him, Dean shudders.  
  
Sam peppers a few kisses along Dean's lower back before sliding his hands under Dean's stomach. He knows he could flip Dean over, undress him that way, which would be infinitely easier, but he likes the feeling of his dick flush with his brother's ass as he undoes Dean's belt.  
  
The belt slides out of the loops with little effort. Sam drops it on the floor then moves again to pop the button and undo the zipper of Dean's jeans. He hast to lift himself a bit to get the room to pull the jeans down, but it doesn't take more than a few moments to maneuver the pants and boxers to Dean's knees.  
  
Cursing the low light in the room, Sam rakes his gaze over Dean's exposed ass and thighs. His mouth waters and he feels years of ravenous desire surge like hurricanes over his tongue. He needs more time, he thinks. He needs more time and a Dean who won't question his brother's teeth marks in every inch of his skin.  
  
Suddenly Gabriel's words tumble in his head.  _That girl likes it rough..._  Sam almost feels as if Gabriel has given him a blessing. Go forth, young sinner, and mark the angel as yours. His cock pulses painfully.  
  
It would be more suspicious, Sam reasons, if Dean didn't wake up with scratches or bruises beginning to bloom.  
  
Feeling heady with the free reign that has been laid over his palms, he slides down the bed until he can press his face to the back of Dean's thigh. Dick tight with eager want, chest tight with apprehensive desire, he opens his mouth and curls it into the sweet meat.  
  
Dean's thigh is thick with muscle and his skin is honeysuckle soft as Sam sucks. He digs his teeth into the skin. Dean whimpers, noise a little high from the pain, and squirms. Sam reaches to wrap his hands around Dean's hips, but hesitates at the thought of accidentally leaving too large finger prints on Dean's skin. Instead, he presses his hands into Dean's lower back, palms skimming the high rise of his ass.  
  
He bites Dean again. Again, again, again. He litters Dean's thighs with marks and he's leaking in his jeans by the time he's through.  
  
The pressure is too tight, too painful. Sam has to unzip his jeans and pull his cock from his boxers. He sighs at the relief, though he doesn't dare push his jeans all the way down or slide them off completely. The fears of Dean waking up have have lessened considerably from the first night he accidentally stumbled upon this opportunity, but there is a chance twisted teenagers will come knocking or barging in.  
  
His cock bobs as he settles back onto his knees. The sight of Dean's pretty, untouched ass is enough to coax another glob of pre-come, and he has to wrap a hand around himself, has to find the barest hint of pressure to ease the unbearable ache. He uses the other hand to keep himself upright.  
  
Dean shifts, unconsciously pushing his hips out and his ass up. It's like an offering, Sam thinks dazedly, one that's been owed to him and one he won't deny. Fingers still firm on his dick, he leans forward to lick a small stripe from thigh to cheek.  
  
If Casey was going to be rough with Dean, if she really was going to eat his pretty ass, then surely there would be marks peppering the sensitive skin. Sam reminds himself again that it would alert Dean to the truth if there weren't bruises sucked into him. He nips at the flesh, sharper than he means to, and his angel cries out softly before pushing his hips against the bed.  
  
With a groan, Sam moves his hands to roam over Dean's ass. His fingers are gentle as he soothes the slick red mark he left. His teeth are less gentle as they sink into the skin again.  
  
Dean whimpers and shifts, unwilling even in his drugged state to give Sam just a little of what he needs. Sam doesn't mean to let his ire trickle through his mouth into the perfect skin Dean would never let him taste, never let anyone taste, but it does. He nips and sucks marks into Dean's ass until he's so close to coming he might spurt without a hand on him.  
  
He doesn't move his mouth from Dean's heated skin as he takes himself in hand again, fucks into his own fist. His tongue finally slides from his mouth along the crease of Dean's ass, finally touches the rim of that too hot, too tempting hole. He groans loudly as the tip slides against the scorching skin. Jacking himself faster, he tries to push his tongue as far into that perfect hole as he can.  
  
If he could bare to take his hand away from his aching dick, he would spread Dean's ass wide, dip his thumbs in the rim and stretch until he could bury his tongue as far inside his angel's writhing body as possible.  
  
He can't stop, though, he needs to come too fucking badly, so he settles for pressing his face firmly against Dean and licking as deeply as he can. His tongue moves frenzied and frantic, gathering the taste of Dean's body as if he licks hard enough, fast enough, he can keep the musk of his baby brother on the back of his tongue forever.  
  
Sam comes too quickly. He realizes he could spend an obscene amount of time eating Dean out, but it still feels like the few minutes he managed to steal were nothing more than a tease. He wonders if he'll ever have enough time: not just for rimming Dean until his jaw is numb, but for anything he wants to do to his little brother.

Everything.  
  
There is a box of tissues next on the nightstand. Sam does his best to wipe the come from Casey's bedspread. His cheeks burn as he realizes that in the daylight, she'll be able to spot the stain on the crimson and ebony comforter. Maybe she'll think it's an old one; maybe she'll think it was Dean humping the mattress in her sleep.  
  
Or maybe she'll think Sam slipped into her room and fucked his little brother on her bed. Maybe she already does.

Sam realizes he doesn't care. Let Casey wonder, he thinks as his the aftershocks roll lazy through his body. Let Dean wonder. Neither of them will ever know, not really. 

Instead of exhaustion, bitterness, following the thought, a strange, giddy feeling beings to float. It hits him fully that he has just rimmed Dean within an inch of his breath (Dean, who scrunched his nose and turned his pretty mouth at the idea of someone getting their mouth on his perfect ass), just slid Dean's body from underneath Casey's greedy clutches, and did it all under the nose of Dean's little friends - of Dean himself. 

A small laugh huffs from his throat before he even realizes he's grinning. The taste of Dean in his mouth somehow trickles even sweeter, making his teeth ache. He soothes the sugar pulse by lowering his mouth back to Dean's ass, because he can. No one will ever catch onto Sam's dirty secret, especially Dean, and suddenly it's _thrilling_. A rush of adrenaline and lust pulse in his veins. 

He's smiling, dimples twitching deep as his dick twitches back to life, as he stretches his body to kiss Dean's slack mouth. He has to cradle Dean's head, twist it so he can slide his tongue between lips, but it's worth it. 

The night isn't over, he thinks as he presses Dean's taste to his own slack mouth. Maybe Sam does have time; not enough time to take everything, of course (he doesn't know if there are enough hours, years, to take everything he wants from Dean) but he does have enough time to take a little more. 

The fear of being caught has faded to a dull noise in the back of his head as he rolls his brother onto his back. Something has shuddered in his brain and he feels untouchable, free to touch and taste to his lust's content. There are no consequences, he realizes with a tight, eager pulse, because there is no way he is going to be caught. This is another game he can't lose. 

He kisses Dean again before moving to the end of the bed. Wrapping his hands around thin ankles, he takes a moment to feel the weight and softness of Dean's body in his palms before dragging the sweet body further on the bed. 

He crawls up Dean's body, the same way he did the other night; he drags the spent head of his dick over Dean's mouth, the same way he did the other night. But tonight, because Sam can, he wraps his hands around Dean's jaw and stretches that beautiful wide. Licking his own lips, he presses the head into the burning softness and moans. 

Pearl teeth scrape light over the skin of his dick when he sinks deeper, but it's too wet and too intoxicating for him to give a fuck. He doesn't care if getting his cock in his baby's mouth hurts a little (doesn't think he would care if it hurt a  _lot_ , if it nicked or cut, if it made him bleed). He's not stopping until he floods Dean's gorgeous mouth, pretty throat, with come. 

Sam pushes deeper, and it's fantastic and so fucking frustrating he groans in pleasure and anger. The feeling of Dean's slack mouth is incredible but Sam knows it would be so much better if Dean were awake, if Dean would just  _suck_ his cock the way he knows Dean could. 

Dean's mouth is made to swallow cock, to suck and kiss and lick Sam into a frenzy, to choke so god damn pretty on it.  _Dean_ was made to suckle Sam's dick; the way he loves Sam so completely, the way he's so eager to please, the way he wants to badly to make his Sammy happy in the face of the unhappiness that is their life. 

And - and  _fuck_ , Dean would look so gorgeous with his mouth wrapped around Sam's length. Lips stretched, throat full, eyes fluttering and watering as he took Sam as deep and as good as he could (probably even deeper, because Dean always went too hard, too much, threw himself into everything and took anything as a challenge). Sam has lost himself in fantasies of Dean's mouth before, but now that he's actually buried between those rose pink and petal soft lips, the fantasies are even more vivid, more impossible, in his mind.

Sam thrusts as far as he can. He can feel Dean's tongue sliding slick over the underside of his cock, Dean's lips resting plush around him, the gentle scrape of Dean's teeth. He strokes along Dean's jaw, his cheekbone, groaning as much at the feeling of his little brother's gorgeous skin as the feeling of his little brother's inferno mouth. 

He sinks his fingers into Dean's cheek. The movement makes a tighter fit, a more delicious pressure, around his cock. He releases the pressure to sweep his thumb along Dean's chin and press it into the left cheek while his other digits remain on the right. Using his hand, he forms Dean's mouth into a pretty 'o' that feels like heaven around him. 

It takes Sam a bit longer to come again. His recovery time has been sliced to shreds already, because it's  _Dean_ , but it still takes a few minutes of sliding between those lips before he spurts hot into his baby brother's perfect mouth. He thrusts, fingers tightening and hips moving erratically, as he feels his orgasm build. He almost wants to hold off, but he reminds himself that he gets to do this again (again and again and  _again_ ). He doesn't have to hold back tonight. He doesn't ever have to hold back again.

The groan that leaves him as he finally empties himself down Dean's throat is low, almost pained. 

He stills. His cock twitches, dribbles, in Dean's mouth. He can feel the come lava thick and hot swishing between Dean's cheeks, coating his still hard cock. Moaning, he pushes his fingers into Dean's cheeks again. When he lets his hand slide from Dean's face, those plush lips fall open in an unconscious pant. 

Sam eases his cock from that angelic pout. As he does, a thick trail of come trickles from the side of Dean's lips. Dean twitches in his sleep, eyes rolling under his lids and body moving. Breathing heavy at the obscene, decadent sight, Sam wraps one hand around Dean's jaw, thumb pressing into his chin, and settles the other on Dean's shoulder. Then he leans in. It's not something he usually does, but the siren pull of Dean's mouth slick with his own release is too much to resist. Sam doesn't even try.

He licks the trail of come from Dean's skin. His moan reverberates so deeply he thinks it must seep into Dean's cheek, Dean's bones. 

He snakes his tongue between lips, licking out the thick streams and replacing them his spit, his groans. His spent cock pulses as he thinks of how deeply he's branded tonight, of how much of himself he's sunk into Dean's body. His desire, his love, his fingers, his tongue, his spit, his come; it's all seeped into Dean's pores, branding him as Sam's even deeper then the Winchester blood pumping in both of their veins.

 _God_ , Sam thinks with a hungry sound. Dean is so his. 

-

An hour passes before Casey knocks on the door with a gentle, "Hey."

Sam has both his and Dean's pants around their hips and zipped up. He unlocked the door after he got them both dressed, then slid in the bed next to Dean. He had wanted to wrap his arm around Dean's middle, splay his hand hot and possessive on that soft tummy, but he'd propped himself up against the pillows, pulled his iPhone out, and pretended to read while he listened to Dean breathe.

Casey pushes the door open. "He still out?" she asks.

"Yeah. Kid can sleep through an atomic bomb."

He doesn't offer any further explanation. Why should he? He's Sam Winchester, that dimpled, sunshine smiling, tender hearted boy who always makes sure the product he sells is pure and the kids who buy it are clean. If he says Dean is just tired from booze and not sleeping, if he tells Dean he has no idea where his bruises and sore nipples come from, who wouldn’t believe him?

Sam drapes Dean’s arm around him and maneuvers his brother until he’s pressed tight and lax against him. He has the strangest urge to parade Dean’s limp body through the party, show off his secret in front of eyes that will never, ever know it.

Casey helps him bring Dean downstairs. She leads them into the kitchen. Most of the other teens are in the living room, lounging, smoking, drinking; none of them are really paying attention as he and Casey move Dean through the house.

There are a pair of ice blue eyes that flicker towards them. Sam doesn’t even disguise his smile. He knows Cas will tell Dean he saw Sam and Casey pulling his limp form out of the house, and he knows that despite Dean’s confusion and wonder at what happened the night before, Dean will never believe Cas’s suspicions.

Sam loads Dean into the Impala. He passes Casey another joint in thanks.

One the drive home, he keeps his hand on Dean’s knee. He grins the entire way to the house.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Three days after Casey's party (two days after Sam catches Dean in his bathroom again and smiles heated as he watches his brother, naked, twisting and craning his neck like he was going to break it as he tried to survey the bruises littering his thighs and ass), John Winchester comes home. 

Dean grills burgers for dinner. John watches him flit about the kitchen from the table where he and Sam have been assigned french fry cutting duty with a gruff, tired air of amusement. Sam thinks he must wear a similar expression. The idea that Sam could be anything like his father, even wear the same expression of affection for the young pillar of their family, pisses him off. 

"Thicker," Dean says, peering over the island where he's seasoning the burgers. "Dad, these are supposed to be steak fries."

Sighing in frustration, John huffs, "I don't understand what that means."

Dean rolls his eyes. He meets Sam's gaze and narrows his eyes, irritation with their father blatant in their depths. 

"It means  _thicker_. Like Sam's." Dean shuffles from the counter to Sam's side. He wraps a napkin around one of the fry's Sam has cut and wiggles it in front of John's face. Sam can't keep his amusement to himself. "See? Sam's fries are perfect. Make yours like his."

John cuts another piece. "Like this?" he asks, holding it up for Dean's inspection.

Dean sighs. 

"Okay, looks like we're having steak fries," Dean says, looking at Sam's pile, before glancing at their father's, "...and potato toothpicks."

Sam laughs out loud, a stupid feeling of pride in his chest and a disproportionate feeling of joy in his throat. Dean shares his smile. It's like John isn't even at the table with them; like it's just Sam and Dean, joking and laughing, making dinner, making a life, together. 

"You know I audit multi- _billion_ dollar companies for a living?" John grumbles.

"Stick to your day job," Dean counters brightly. "You can handle dessert. Strawberries, pineapple and grapes are in the fridge. 

"We're having fruit salad for dessert?" John questions with a raised eyebrow. 

Dean nods, sparing a mock glare in Sam's direction. "Yeah.  _Someone_ made a rule that I have to get like three servings of fruit a day or no pie ever." 

Sam just smiles. Dean hits his shoulder then heads back into the kitchen. Sam goes back to chopping fries, feeling John's eyes heavy and somber on the back of his neck. He rolls his shoulders in an attempt to shake his father's gaze. 

"So is this some sort of special fruit salad? Do I need to cut them a certain way?"

"Small pieces. Just cut the grapes in half. No, just one time, they'll get all mushy like - like that."

The sound of Dean's laughter is a siren song (it always is), pulling Sam's attention into the kitchen. Both Dean and John are smiling, Dean's face bright and beautiful, John's exhausted. It dampens the picture Dean's gorgeous joy makes and Sam just wants their father to  _leave_. Leave the house, the city, the country, even, and never come back. The only thing his presence does is darken the light Dean brings into their world. Dean may act happy when John is here, but Sam knows how disappointed and self-conscious, how raw and hurt, Dean feels when their father leaves - and leaves, leaves, leaves. Why can't he just  _stay gone_? Sam's jaw ticks as his frustration builds. Why can't he just - 

"Shit," Sam hisses, mouth recognizing the sting before he fully realizes he's cut the side of his index finger. "Shit." 

Both Dean and John stop, attention immediately turning to Sam. Dean grabs a napkin and rushes to his side. 

"You okay, Sammy?" he asks.

Sam meets his brother's soft gaze. "Yeah. Fine." He smiles gently as Dean dabs his finger. "Just wasn't paying attention."

"Idiot," Dean mutters fondly. "You're gonna cut your finger off one day." He blots Sam's cut again. Sam can't help the little hiss as another sliver of blood slides from the wound. "Oh hush you overgrown baby."

"It stings when you do that."

"Aw," Dean murmurs mockingly. "You want me to kiss it better?" He flutters his golden fan lashes, eyes glittering with mirth. He's joking, of course. 

Sam has to drop his gaze to the table. (He does want Dean to kiss his cut, his wounds. He wants to watch Dean close his eyes and suck the tip of his finger between those lips, watch Dean's cheeks as he sucks Sam until the ache in his finger dissipates and the ache in his cock becomes unbearable. He watches to watch Dean kiss, suck that pain better too.) 

Dean wraps his fingers around Sam's, makes a little show of pursing his lips and pulling Sam's hand towards his mouth. Sam knows his little brother expects him to pull away before the destination is made.

If John wasn't here, Sam thinks he wouldn't wriggle from Dean's grip. If John wasn't here, Sam thinks he would follow Dean's joking movement, would push past it, brush his wounded fingertip over Dean's lip and lick the smear of blood from his brother's gasping mouth. 

John is here, though, and Dean would either punch him or run screaming through the backdoor if he did that. Sam shakes his hand from Dean's grasp.

"I don't want it to get more infected."

Dean grins. "I'll grab you a Band-Aid."

As Dean heads into the utility closet in the living room, Sam sighs and sags back into his chair.

"There's no need for that language in front of your brother," John admonishes from the kitchen.

Sam almost laughs. He hurts himself and Dean flutters worried and anxious, immediately falling into care taker and best friend, and his father tells him not to say 'shit' in front of his fifteen-year-old brother. He keeps the bitter amusement to himself. 

Dean comes back in with a Band-Aid and tube of Neosporin. Sam insists he doesn't need it, but Dean just looks at him until he relents to whatever treatment Dean sees best. 

"Okay," Dean says when he's wrapped Sam's finger. "You are in charge of shredding the lettuce."

"I thought you wanted me to do the fries." 

"I'll fry 'em." When Sam tries to protest, feeling like he's been demoted, Dean pats his shoulder. "Don't want you burning yourself, too." 

-

John tells them about the company he audited in New York. He tells them how wasteful they were, how much he cut and slashed and burned their budget, but he doesn't tell them how many causalities fell in his success. 

"How many redundancies did you make?" Sam asks, not looking up from his salad.

His father and brother, who were laughing gently, both trail off. Dean blinks at him, guileless and gentle. John's expression hardens. 

"What are redundancies?" Dean says. 

"How many people did you have to fire?" Sam asks again. He meets his father's eyes. There is exhaustion there, happiness to be home, and it spurs Sam's anger. "How many lives did you ruin? To save that company money, to get your bonus? How many?"

It's a little harsh - the words, the tone of Sam's voice - but suddenly Sam doesn't care. He wants to know how many days John darkened before he came home and plunged Sam's little world into darkness too. 

John sighs heavily, like Sam is six and John has the bothersome job of explaining something he should know by now. "Sam. When you're looking at a place like that, when you're looking at logistics - " 

"You forget there are people attached to the numbers," Sam finishes for him. 

"You need to work on your attitude, son," John says solemnly. "I don't work for weeks then come home to listen to you be ungrateful and - "

"Dad, he was just asking." Dean's voice is gentle, slow, as if he's trying to guide their father from anger. He glances across the table at Sam. His voice holds the same tone when he says, "You know he's tired. He just got back."

For once, Dean's voice doesn't cut through the waves of bullshit and anger. For once, Dean's soft gaze and gentle words fan the flames. If John wasn't here, Dean wouldn't have to soften himself and stretch himself thin keeping their blood thick. (If John wasn't here, it would just be he and Dean at the table, and later they could drink beer and watch TV, and later Sam could slip through Dean's bedroom door and touch him again, have him the way he’s been obsessing over the past few days – years.)

"What do you come home for then?" Sam yells, sudden and caustic. His skin burns with how much he wants John out of this house (his house, his home, his home with Dean where there just isn't any fucking room for John's presence). "Why do you even fucking bother coming back at all?"

"Sammy - "

John stands, squaring his shoulders as if Sam finds him imposing anymore. "You do not talk to me that way. You do not talk in front of your brother that way. You do not disrespect me after I've given you the kind of life most kids would be more than grateful for." 

Sam throws his head back, laughing humorless and dark. "What kind of  _life_ have you given me? What kind of life do you think you've given him?" he hisses, nodding towards his brother. "You're never here and when you are - God. You know, I'm the one who raised him. Who got him clothes and helped him with his homework and taught him to drive. I'm more of a father to him then you will  _ever_ be. You're just some greedy, corporate fuck who sweeps in every now and then to criticize us before you fly off again."

After the words leave him, Sam feels strangely empty.

-

John banishes him to his room as he heads out the door. He grabs the keys to the Impala. When he slides into the front seat, he texts Dean and tells him he's going for a drive; he needs to clear his head. Dean's only response is  _be careful._

Sam pulls back into their driveway almost an hour later. He glares at John's truck, imposing and dark, sucking the life out of him like a black hole as it sits in  _his_ parking space. Wrapping his hands around the wheel, gripping it tight, he tries to breathe. 

His phone buzzes next to him. He grabs it and sees immediately it's not from Dean - which means it doesn't matter - so he sighs and slips it into his pocket. 

He walks around their porch to the entry through the kitchen, hoping he can slip in without distracting John from his nightcap of Scotch and CNN. 

The knob is sliding slow in his hand, door barely cracked open, when he hears Dean's voice floating through the living room. 

" - and most of his friends are off at school, while he's here, taking care of me. He has to drive me to school, pick me up, take me everywhere - it's not like that's fun for him. He's bored out of his mind and it's not - "

Sam's heart seizes in his throat. His brother's voice is firm, a little leeway for his wise-cracking exterior to bleed through, but Sam can see the sincerity coating the words without needing to be in the room. 

"He could get a job."

John's voice is firm, too, but deeper than Dean's even though his brother has been trying to roll gravel in his throat and sound more like their father since his last birthday. There is no kindness in it; only exhaustion. 

"Oh, yeah, because Sammy's really gonna find the intellectual stimulation he's always whining about at Little D's Pizza Palace." Dean sighs; Sam can imagine him shaking his head. 

"It'd be better than what he's doing."

"How do - " Dean begins sharply. Sam doesn't need to be in the room to know that his little brother is taking a deep breath to ease his edges. "What he's doing is taking care of me, of the house - "

"You think I don't know how he gets his money?" John says, sharp and harsh like a cold knifes edge. "I know you think your brother works hard for this family, but he's just a stoner kid who took not going to California as an excuse to - "

"He's not!" 

Sam blinks, unsure he really heard Dean's voice that low or loud or that defensive, unsure he really heard those words.

"You're so hard on him, but he's not just - he doesn't just hang around and do nothing, you know. He keeps the house up, he keeps me from doing anything stupid, he - he keeps everything from falling apart. And he still reads all the time, and he still writes, and he would probably be teaching those classes at Stanford by now if you just would have let him  _go_."

The heavy pant of Dean's breathing echoes through the kitchen. Sam's hand shakes on the doorknob, but he keeps his grip steady because his knees feel weak. He's never heard his brother raise his voice to their father like that. 

"And what would have happened to you, Dean? What would I have done? Quit supporting our family to let Sam chase some pipe dream in California?"

"No. No, you wouldn't, because I can take care of myself. Sam taught me how to - " Dean stops himself mid-sentence. Sam closes his eyes, picturing the way Dean's teeth are probably sunk into his lip. "I've watched you my whole life, Dad, and I know how to keep it together. I can handle being on my own."

The urge to punch something - a wall, the door frame, John's face - trembles in Sam's hand. Being alone shouldn't even be an option for his little brother, let alone the best one Dean can see. 

"You can't."

Dean probably bristles at the clipped words. Sam does.

"Sam did. You trusted him enough to look after both of us. Why can't you trust me enough to look after myself?"

"This conversation is over." There is a finality in John's tone that even Sam would hesitate to argue you with. 

"Fine," Dean huffs. Sam can hear the sound of his clothes rustling against the couch as he turns to leave. 

"Dean." The name is heavy, weighing Dean's bones, halting his movement. "I know you think I'm too hard on your brother. I know you wish I was home more."

"Don't worry about that," Dean says quickly. He's so eager to soothe any wounds John may bear, always patting his arm and telling him everything is okay when nothing is. "I know you're busy supporting us and I don't - it's fine. I like it better not having you around, anyway. Makes it easier to throw all those wild house parties."

Sam smiles tightly at the ease of Dean's tone. He wonders if his father is doing the same. 

"Things won't always be this way. But they are now, and it's the way they have to be."

"I know," Dean says softly. 

"I only do what I think is best for this family. You and your brother are all I have. I just want to protect you." 

"I know."

A sigh, a shift, rustles through the house. Sam thinks their father might be ruffling Dean's hair, hugging him even, because John and Dean are free with familial affection. Sam saves his affection for Dean. 

"Go to bed. I'll wait up for your brother."

"Don't yell at him, okay? He's been - things have been stressful lately, for - just don't be too harsh."

Sam listens as Dean moves. Craning his neck, he can see the tip of Dean's shoulder, the long line of one of his legs, as he moves towards the kitchen. He takes a breath, gets ready to step inside, and stops at the sound of John's voice. 

"Dean."

He sees his brother pause. 

"Have things been...stressful for you?"

He sees his brother shrug. 

"Dean, I know I'm not - maybe I'm not as easy to talk to as Sammy is. But you can talk to me about anything."

Sam stifles his snort. Of course, he and Dean can tell their father anything, as long as it's what John wants to hear. Of course they can tell him anything, as long as they're prepared for the tirade of judgments that will follow. Dean isn't going to say anything. Even if he did think John would be helpful, better to talk to than Sam, Dean never wants to 'bother' John with his thoughts or feelings. 

Dean doesn't ignore the words, though. Sam can see his shoulders move, back to the kitchen entryway now. He sees the line of tension holding them tight beneath Dean's t-shirt. 

"Things are...okay," Dean says, slowly. "I just - I mean, I think it's just stress."

Sam can hear the frown creasing John's lips when he asks, "What's just stress?"

"I keep..." Dean begins. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "It's just stress, but I keep..."

"Dean, it's okay. Whatever it is, you can tell me." When Dean doesn't say anything, John sighs. "What's stressing you? Is it something to do with Sammy?"

"No, Sammy is - he doesn't make things stressful." Quietly, Dean adds, "He makes things better."

Sam's heart claws his chest. Elation creeps along his bones at the words, at Dean's defense and love for him. He wants to walk into the living room, wrap his arms around his brother, and never let go. 

"The only things you should be worried about is school and girls."

The lilt of John's voice at the last word is supposed to make it a crack. Sam can see the uneasy grin their father must be wearing in his mind. He rolls his eyes. 

"It's nothing," Dean says. "It's - never mind, it's nothing, forget I said anything."

There is a creak of leather signals John moving from the couch. Sam sees the figure of his father moving, sliding a hand over Dean’s shoulder. Right where  _Sam’s_  hand should be, comforting, soothing, possessing.

“Is this about Sammy?” John asks softly. “Has he gotten in trouble? Gotten you in some sort of trouble with drugs or – ”

"Sam takes care of me," Dean interrupts sharply, shrugging the hand off his shoulder and putting a few inches of space between John and himself. "You've gotta..." he shakes his head. Sam can see the exhaustion and will to argue against their father's iron words slide to the floor. "Dad. I'm not like shooting up or anything. But you didn't raise a square, y'know." He tries to diffuse the tension with soft little cracks. "It's not like I'm doing anything worse than what you probably did when you were fifteen." 

John takes a deep breath. "It's been a long night, Deano," he says evenly. "Why don't you head up for bed? I'll talk to Sam when he gets back."

"Dad, you don't - it's seriously not a big deal - "

"Go to sleep, son," John tells him, no room for discussion or argument or even thought in his tone. 

Dean lingers for a moment. Sam wishes he could see his face, wishes he could wrap his arms around his little brother, hold him, soothe those nerves with his hands and mouth. When John doesn't speak again, Dean whispers a soft  _night_ and shuffles towards the stairs. Before he passes the door frame, removes himself from Sam's gaze, he glances into the kitchen. Sam tries to keep the surprise from his face as Dean offers a gentle smile, a small nod. Sam wonders how long Dean knew he was there.

-

Sam steps out of the kitchen and waits a few minutes, heart racing as he turns Dean's words over in his head, gut twisting and warming as he thinks of Dean's devotion to their family, to  _him_. He closes his eyes and wills John out of their home, out of their lives; he squeezes them tighter and visualizes every obstacle holding Dean's heart and lithe body from Sam's hands disintegrating under the force of their loyalty and devotion to one another. 

Harsh words are waiting for him when he finally comes inside. He responds with his eyes blank and on the floor. John's face is red and his hands are fists when he finally sends Sam up to his room with a promise that they  _will_ be discussing the way he’s taking care of his little brother in the morning. 

Dean is curled on his side, one of Sam's pillows cradled in his arms, drenching Sam's bed with his scent and warmth. Sam's breath catches in his throat at the sight of his angel, so perfect, lying sweet and soft in his bed. 

He stands in the door frame and drinks in the sight. His entire body aches with the idea of having Dean in his bed like this, tonight, tomorrow night, every night the stars shine slick in the sky. 

The light from the hall pours into the room. It brushes Dean's face and the lovely eyes that Sam has been seeing in every face lately flutter open.

"Sammy?" 

Licking his lips, he steps into his room and closes the door. "Yeah," he breathes, entranced as his little brother stretches to a sitting position on his bed. "You okay, buddy?"

Dean's teeth slide over his bottom lip. Sam wants to suck the little trail of saliva it spreads across the plump pinkness. Sam wants...fuck, Sam  _wants_ , so much, that he has a sharp, strong urge to disregard everything he's worked for, everything he's worked to hide and protect, and just lick into Dean's mouth until neither of them can breathe.

"M'sorry," Dean whispers. His gaze is on his feet, bare and rubbing against each other. "I didn't think he would yell at you if I..." He sounds younger now than he did years ago, when his height first starting racing towards Sam's and his shoulders started blooming wide. 

Sighing, Sam moves to the bed. He slides next to his little brother. Instead of leaning against him, Dean stiffens. 

"I shouldn't have said anything."

"Dean, you didn't do anything wrong." Sam watches his brother's hands clench around the pillow. Curiosity, tinged with a bittersweet taste, tugs at Sam's tongue. "Are you…stressed, though?"

Dean's fingers fumble against the pillow, drawing nonsense patterns, and Sam wonders how it would feel to lay his head against Dean's soft, flat belly and let those nimble hands sear random swirls on the skin of his back. 

"You don't..." Dean begins softly. "I know you try to hide it, Sammy, but I know you're not happy. I know it must - it sucks. Taking care of me, being stuck here, I know you think it sucks. I didn't want to add another sucky thing to the list of crap you have to deal with."

Before he consciously realizes his arm is moving, he has it wrapped around Dean's shoulder, pulling his precious angel close. Dean is still tense against him. 

“Don’t ever think that,” Sam says fierce and low. Emotions he can’t fully process under the influence of Dean’s full lips and the gentle care Dean always shows him constrict in his chest. “Don’t - Dean, don’t worry about me. If there’s something going on with you, you can tell me. I want you to. I want...” 

Hesitation hovers along his lips before falling away. He's stolen kisses from underneath Dean's little nose, sucked the sweetness out of his pretty, perfect mouth and cock and ass, and his little brother has been none the wiser. No one has. He can spill his messy feelings over Dean's skin just like he's spilled his come over Dean's cheeks, lips; he can stain them both, and Dean will still look at him like they're both clean. 

"I love you," Sam whispers. "Dean, you gotta know. I won't lie and say I love this town or anything, but I do love you. I'd do anything for you, man. Never think I'm not exactly where I want to be when I'm with you."

He waits for Dean's response. A crazy part of him wants to lean forward, press his lips to Dean's cheek, and say it again. A crazy part of him wants to pull Dean into his lap and just fucking  _show_ him what he means. He's certain Dean would try to scramble away and an even crazier part of him (the craziest, darkest part) thinks he might not let Dean go until he understood. Maybe not even then.

"Okay, Samantha," Dean huffs, shifting uncomfortably under Sam's arm. "Whatever you say."

A sting that feels stupidly like rejection cuts Sam's chest. Trying to breathe past it, he says, "I'm serious. Dean, I'm here for you."

"I know. It just - it sucks, you know, that you have to be. That you have to be unhappy - "

"I'm not - " Sam sighs. Dean snorts. "Okay, I'm - you're right. I'm not happy with everything. But I'm happy with you. I'm happy - "  _being your brother, except I'm really, really not, because God Dean, I want to be your everything, the only thing_ " - taking care of you. I am."

"Well then you're even more of a girl than I thought," Dean quips, voice still soft but sounding more reassured. 

Sam smiles tight and small and bitter. 

They sit together for a while, silent, with the cold light from Sam's window settling over them. 

Eventually, Dean's tense muscles relax. He settles more comfortably against the headboard, brushing against Sam's side, making the skin under Sam's t-shirt tingle. 

It's somehow more and less frustrating to be close to Dean now that Sam has had him pliant and dirty and sweet. Sam's brain whirs for opportunities now, waits and watches for the perfect time to slip Dean a little magic pill that makes most of Sam's fantasies come true, and he's coated with a constant, candy sweet eager ache.

The knowledge that he can have Dean (almost) any way he wants (almost) any time he wants and the thrill of tasting his angel's wings eases the deeper sores, wounds that have been open and bleeding for years, but in the dark, there are still times Sam can't breathe. Dean's rejection is still a weight heavy in his gut and even the high, floating feeling that comes from slipping his cock through Dean's lips can't kill the pain completely. 

"I didn't want to tell you," Dean whispers into the shadows. Sam is drawn from his thoughts by the tremors in his brother's voice. "I thought... I thought you'd go all Lifetime movie on me, or something, and I didn't - I wanted you to think I could take care of myself, y'know?"

"Dean, you don't have to - "

"I'm fifteen, dude. I should..." Sam watches as Dean closes his eyes. "I should be able to handle myself at stupid fucking high school parties. But apparently I can't even..." He trails off, tilting his head away so Sam can't see his eyes. Sam wants to reach out, wrap his hand around Dean's chin and pull him back. "I don't remember Casey's party," he whispers so softly Sam barely hears him.

Sam takes in a deep breath. "You guys partied pretty hardy," he says, smiling so wide it flows from his lips to his voice. 

Dean smiles weakly back. "Yeah. And I don't remember it."

"Well you had all those - "

"I don't remember  _any_ of it," Dean snaps. There is anger in his tone but it's a gauze, weak and light and Sam can see the confusion, the fear, underneath. "I remember getting there and...that's it. Everyone told me I hooked up with Casey. They said - Charlie said we disappeared for  _hours_ , and I don't remember a god damn mother fucking  _second_ of it. You know I - I even called her. I fucking called her and she said she took for me the ride of her life and I said okay but I don't - I don't remember even  _touching_ her. I had - " he stops, laughing dry and harsh. "I had bruises, Sammy. All - all over. Like she threw to her damn dogs or something."

Sam bristles. He knows Dean doesn't know he's comparing him to one of the slobbering mutts Casey's father raises, but it pisses him off anyway. It hurts.

"The - the things she did to me..." Dean says, and his body is shaking along with his voice. "The things I must have let her do, to have the - the..." He tightens his grip around Sam's pillow and Sam wishes his brother would cling to him so completely, so sweetly. The ache of wanting drowns the guilt beginning to buzz at the desperate, defeated tone of his angel's voice. "I know I wouldn't have. But I must have. But I don't - God, Sammy, I don't even remember kissing her. I didn't feel like, I don't know, like I'd fucked her." More quietly, he adds, "Felt more like I'd been fucked."  

Then Dean turns towards him, looking as if a breath will bring him tumbling to tears, will break his already fragile feelings. He's so beautiful Sam thinks he might cry, too, might break along the same edges. They could just stumble down to the bottom together. The thought shouldn't be as comforting, as tempting, as it is. 

Except Dean is looking at Sam expectantly, as if he's waiting for his big brother to spread out an explanation that makes everything okay, and Sam realizes he isn't about to fall at all. 

"You were really drunk," he offers lowly.

Dean's face hardens instantly and he snaps his gaze down to the bed. "I'm always really drunk," he says, sharp and dark. "I'm always really fucked up and I always remember when I fuck someone. I never get that sloppy. I never - "

"Hey." Sam tries to soften his voice, soothe his little angel before his thoughts spiral too deep and too out of control. "It's okay, it happens - "

"Not to me," Dean hisses. He takes a deep breath, gulping the air as his muscles tense again. The intensity of Dean's reaction is jarring and Sam fumbles as he attempts to comfort him. "It doesn't happen to you. And it doesn't happen to me. It hasn't before. It - " Swallowing hard, Dean brings his gaze to Sam again, catching Sam off guard with his fragile loveliness. "I think there's something wrong with me, Sammy," he whispers, voice wet. 

There isn't, Sam wants to assure him, but he bites his lip instead. As breakingly harsh as it is to see Dean so twisted in knots, to see Dean look at him with fear in his emerald depths, Sam knows it would be worse to see those eyes darken with betrayal, anger, hate. 

So instead of telling Dean he's fine, instead of even suggesting someone could be doing this to him, instead of admitting the dirty truth of it all, Sam squeezes Dean's shoulder and whispers, "Okay." Dean shakes underneath his hand. "It's okay, Dean. Everything is going to be okay. I'll take care of you, I promise." Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't move, just tremors as he bites his lips and tries to keep the wetness stinging his eyes from flowing any further. 

Sam hates to see his angel in such pain, but as he holds his little brother, he realizes he hates not being able to soothe the pain just as fiercely. If Dean would only let him kiss the tears away, he wouldn't have to cry in the first place. If Dean would only let him lick and suck the poison out, he wouldn't have to hurt. 

Throat dry and heart surging with a strange flush of not-quite-adrenaline, Sam asks, "Do you trust me?"

Speaking the words makes his tongue heavy (feel bloated, thick with blood and lies). It feels somehow more perverse than biting Dean's pretty little nipples until they bloomed red under his teeth, than running his tongue along Dean's sweet mouth and sweet hole, than rubbing his come into Dean's soft skin.

Sam doesn't care. (He doesn’t. He  _doesn’t_.)

When Dean gives a little nod, says  _'course I trust you, Sammy, you're my brother_ , Sam feels an almost vicious pulse of something dark that he can't even begin to name. He thinks he should feel guiltier, at least for making Dean cry. 

But as Dean trembles prettily against him, Sam only feels tired (exhausted) and hungry (ravenous). 

He can't wait for John to leave. 

-

It's Saturday afternoon. Sam only has to wait one more week for John to head out on a three week stay on the other side of the country. He can't keep the eager bounce out of his step, the excited tension out of his smile. 

Until John comes home from the supermarket, arms full of brown paper bags, and barks for Dean to bring the rest of the groceries in. Sam isn't planning on moving from where he's sprawled across the couch until John gives him a sharp look. With a groan, Sam follows him into the kitchen.

"Robert called me while I was shopping," John tells him as he brings a sack to the pantry. "Some issues came up with the company in California. They're gonna need me to leave a little earlier."

Not turning around, Sam asks, "How much earlier?"

"Tomorrow."

Sam nearly drops the box of macaroni. He has to consciously remind himself not to grin or pump his fist in a ridiculous gesture of ecstatic relief, not to bounce on his heels as he turns around, not to run towards his little brother who is standing in the kitchen entry way with a blank expression and swing him around because it'll be just the two of them again.  _Finally_. 

"Tomorrow?" Dean asks, not moving any further into the kitchen. 

His angel clearly isn't as thrilled about the prospect of having their father gone for an entire month. There was a time when Sam could empathize with that feeling, before bitterness and DeanDeanDean hollowed any good feelings for the head of their family from his chest. He doesn't want his baby brother jaded, of course, but he does want Dean to let go of his idea of John as a good father, a good provider. He does want Dean to see it's better when John isn't here, wearing them down, tearing them up; he does want Dean to see, to believe, it's better, the best, when it's just the two of them. 

John sighs. He moves around the kitchen island to lay a hand on Dean's shoulder. Sam wants to knock it away. 

"I'm sorry, Deano. I tried to get - "

"It's fine," Dean says immediately. He walks forward, moving out from underneath their father's heavy hand, and keeps his eyes on the ground as he slides the bags onto the counter. "I was getting tired of hearing your snoring from down the hall anyway."

That does make Sam ache, just a little, for his brother. He wants to hold him, soothe and comfort him. (He wants to hoist Dean up on the island he's leaning against, kiss the melancholy from his lips, maybe get him on his hands and knees and eat him until he can't hold himself up anymore. Sam could slide him down - he would be so gentle, he would - and bend him over, fuck him until Dean's head was filled with Sam and  _yesmoremoremore_  instead of the sting of John's absence.)

He has to turn back towards the pantry and lay his palms on a shelf, breathe and count in his head very, very slowly, until he can help unload the frozen foods. 

-

John's flight is at an ungodly hour of the morning. Dean stays up with him, watching TV and listening to stories about John's last trip, until he has to leave. Sam is up, too, but he keeps himself occupied on his laptop. 

An hour before his flight leaves, John heads out to the car. He gives Dean a long, tight hug that gets Dean squirming after several minutes. Instead of trying to hug Sam, he asks for a walk out to the truck. Dean curls on the couch before they head out the door, pillow between his arms and face rubbing against the arm. Sam smiles. He doesn't understand how John can leave this, but he's glad John does. 

They head out to the truck, John carrying his bags and Sam shoving his hands in his pocket. When they reach the truck, John throws his bags in the back seat. He levels Sam with a steady, somber gaze after he closes the door. 

"I want you to take care of Dean."

Sam almost rolls his eyes. He  _knows_ that. John has been leaving him with that message, been drilling it into his head, for years. 

"I will," Sam says, annoyed, eager to get back inside and get his hands on his angel's soft skin. 

God, it's been so  _long_ since he's been able to kiss Dean, touch and taste and possess him. The wanting has been worse in the time John has been back, because he knows now how good it feels to scratch the itch of longing, to lose himself in his baby brother's beauty, and he's been  _denied_  by their father's suffocating presence. 

Feeling flushed, Sam adds, "I always do."

"I'm serious, Sammy."

Offended, he crosses his arms over his chest and matches his father serious gaze for serious gaze. "So am I. You're not here, you don't know everything I do to take care of him. But I do."

He does. 

-

Dean is asleep by the time Sam gets back inside. He takes a moment to admire the sweet picture his baby brother makes on his back, one arm hanging off the couch and the other over his eyes, breathing slow and shallow. As he heads to the stairs, planning to grab a drop, slip it in a beer and wake Dean up for a drink to drown the ache of being left again, a little thrill rolls through his brain. 

What if, tonight, he didn't use the pills at all?

It's a dangerous spike, unknown and potentially disastrous, but it slides into the base of Sam's skull and stops him in his tracks. 

Looking over his baby brother's body, he feels his heart beat quicken. Dean looks so peaceful, so pretty, so sweet,like he's Sam's for the taking. Another flame hot thrill pulses through him, because Dean  _is_ Sam's: Dean is his, his to take, his to have. Whenever Sam wants him. However Sam wants him. 

Sam wants him tonight (now). Sam wants him sober. (Wants him awake, too, participating, and his jaw twitches as he realizes there are still parts of Dean he can't touch.)

His little brother has always been a sound sleeper, but since Sam started slipping roofies into Dean (since  _Sam_  started slipping into him), he doses like he's dead to the world. Sam wonders how much he could get away with like this. No drugs, no booze, just Dean's tired trust leaving him vulnerable to Sam's hunger. How long could Sam touch him? How deeply could Sam kiss him? Could Sam get him off without startling him awake?

He licks his lips as he moves to kneel in front of the couch. As he sinks down, he wonders if this is how it feels to go to church: to kneel, to worship, to find solace from the ugly world in something beautiful and good. 

Dean breathes but doesn't move. Even his eyes are still in his sleep. 

Sam stares for several moments, unsure of what he wants to do. He needs to kiss Dean, so he has to try sliding his tongue into Dean's sleep slack mouth. It's as good a start as any. 

The entire scene is so much like the first night and Sam feels the sepia sting of déjà vu wash over him. His mind briefly turns over the difference between that night and this, how the first time was an accident, a respite he dared to take, and how far he's come since then. He tries to stop the train of thought before it barrels too far or deep. 

Pushing up on his knees, bracing one hand on the couch cushion above Dean's head and the other on the arm, he drops a soft, barely there kiss to Dean's mouth. It's a testing kiss, the softest touch of lips to lips, evaluating how deeply he can delve into the waters. It's difficult to pull away, but he manages, drawing back enough to hover over his sleeping beauty's face and watch for any movement. There's nothing. 

He breathes a sigh of relief. His breath must fan hot over Dean's skin. He wonders how it feels, if Dean would like it, if Dean would whine; he wonders how it would feel if it was Dean above him, breathing the life back into his lungs.

He licks over Dean’s slack mouth. His tongue dips into the soft cradle of Dean’s mouth before he pulls back to run it hotly over the pliant bottom lip. He traces the bow of Dean’s top lip with the tip of his tongue, learning its shape, searing into his muscle memory. Then he slides to the edge of Dean’s slightly open mouth, flicks his tongue through the moist space between them, then flicks it back, sweeping back and forth. The sensitive top and bottom of his slick tongue brush Dean’s sweet lips and the tip barely grazes Dean’s own bubblegum tongue.

The movements get him hot, skin flushed and cock hard, works him up so quickly his dick is a pulsing lava line when he rubs his hand against himself. He wants to unzip now, position himself over Dean’s pretty mouth, perpetually half-open like a tease, a temptation, an invitation, and come messy and hot all over them. He wants to watch the strings slide sticky over Dean’s lips, wants to watch himself spurt inside the pillow soft mouth. He wants to watch Dean swallow it, lick it off his lips, eat it up. He wants Dean to like it.

Still rubbing himself through his jeans, he finally shoves his tongue between unresistant lips. He groans.

He’s moments away from replacing his tongue with his cock when he feels Dean’s arm twitch against his stomach. Startled, he pulls away, landing on his knees. He clenches his hands into fists and drops them on his thighs.

The thought of being caught flashes fear white hot through his body. His eyes are wide and his mouth is open. He waits, muscles frozen, brain fever hot and racing, as his little angel scrunches his nose and twists.

He's breathing heavily when Dean’s eyes flutter opened.

“Sammy?” Dean yawns, lips smacking together, swollen and wet from Sam’s kisses. He pulls his arms above his head, arches his back, stretching with lazy grace, sleek like a jungle cat Sam wants to cage, own, tame. Dean furrows his brows and licks his lips. Sam nearly groans because that’s  _him,_ his taste, his spit and lust and love, that Dean is licking from his mouth. “Was I droolin’ in my sleep?”

“Yeah,” Sam rasps. His body shakes. It takes everything,  _everything_ , not to lean forward and suck the mingled taste of their tongues from Dean’s bottom lip. He tries to grin but he knows it must seem watery, forced, shaken. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna drown in it.”

Dean snorts softly before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He grimaces. Sam has to look away, can’t watch his baby brother smear the traces he left behind with disgust and exhaustion. Sam’s stomach clenches.

“Ew,” Dean mutters. Sam closes his eyes as he listens to Dean sit up, listens to Dean rub Sam off of his skin. “God. So gross.”

Sam stands. His movements are quick and harsh; they have to be, because if he doesn’t pull himself back, he’s going to surge forward and push his spit back into Dean’s mouth, just fucking  _drench_ him in it, until no amount of squirming or rubbing can erase Sam from Dean’s body.

“Sam?”

“Bathroom,” Sam mumbles as he moves hurriedly towards the stairs.

-

When Sam gets back downstairs, Dean is lounging with his eyes half-closed, watching something crude and violent and loud play on the television.

Sam heads to the kitchen and grabs two beers. He drops the pill into Dean’s. He feels oddly hollow when his fingers slip the roofie into the neck, but as he watches it dissolve, break apart and seep into the liquid, the eager thrill he’s come to associate with these nights begins to build.

He tries to focus on that, the ecstasy of knowing, of anticipation, instead of his rejection and anger. He clings to the thrill thrumming through his skin.

His cock is half-hard and aching in his jeans as he walks back into the living room. He doesn’t think Dean will notice; even if Dean does, Dean won’t think that thick rush of blood is for him. The thought actually makes Sam less self-conscious. Instead of leaving him distressed and bitter, the thought almost makes him  _want_ Dean to notice, almost makes him want to put his arousal on display for Dean because he knows it won’t be long until he sates it with Dean’s body, and Dean will never know. 

It's strangely intoxicating, this power he has over his little brother. It’s a dark power, leaves a sour taste on his tongue, but it’s not wholly unpleasant.

“Beer?” Sam asks, but it’s not a question.

Dean looks at the offered bottle. He reaches out, hesitant, but then bites his lip and pulls back.

“Maybe,” Dean begins, voice soft. He licks his lips (Sam twitches, hands and heart and dick) and makes a conscious effort to straighten his shoulders, lower his tone. “Nah, man,” he says, casual, like he didn’t just shy away from a Bud Light.

Sam quirks an eyebrow at him. “Dean. Dad’s gone, remember? C’mon.”

Dean shakes his head. “I just don’t think I should drink… I mean, I’m not really in the mood for beer.”

“You’re always in the mood for beer,” Sam counters. Irritation is building between his brows. Just fucking take it, he thinks, impatience burgeoning on harsh desperation. Just fucking let me take you.

“Yeah, well, I’m not in the mood for one right now,” Dean snaps.

Sam blinks.

“Dean, I just – ”

“I don’t fucking want it, okay? Jesus Christ.”

It’s probably the harshest Dean has ever spoken to him. Sam flinches. He thinks about the night being wasted, the pill, and anger flares within him. He thinks about rushing upstairs and grabbing another hit to drop in a can of Coke or something, but then he thinks about just…not. He thinks about not drugging Dean, not waiting until Dean is asleep, but still touching Dean.

The ugly pulse of desire startles him. It beats at the base of his dick, though, and rattles his heart in his chest.

Then Dean sighs, drawing Sam out of his stupor. Dean’s face is soft as he closes his eyes and runs a hand along his cheek. When he opens his eyes, they’re tired but apologetic. Sam feels his darkness soften (his cock, hungry, still twitches hard).

“Sorry,” Dean whispers. He rubs his hand on his cheek. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to – thanks, Sammy. I just don’t really feel like a nightcap right now.”

“Okay,” Sam says, smooth and gentle, betraying nothing of the tumultuous storm inside. “I just thought. I mean, it’s kind of a tradition. When he leaves, unwind with a beer and video games. But if you’re not – ”

“No, man, it’s just…” Dean trails off, biting his lip. Sam wonders if Dean has noticed the taste on his lips is different. “Maybe I should lay off alcohol for a while, y’know, ‘til I’m not so…sloppy.”

Sam barely even has to think about the words before they tumble from his mouth. “Dean,” he sighs, shaking his head. He thrusts the bottle back towards Dean. He adds a soft laugh to ease the tense way Dean peers up at him. “You’re not gonna have some heavy hook-up you can’t remember tomorrow. I’m the only one here.”

Dean smiles, small, gentle, but genuine. His body is relaxed as he reaches out to take the beer from Sam’s hand.

-

Sam carries Dean up the stairs bridal style. He imagines Dean would squirm in his arms, laugh and shout as he demanded Sam to put him down. He imagines Dean would be happy.

For the first time, Sam spreads Dean out on his bed instead of his baby brother’s. Sam wants his sheets to smell like Dean, like them, their mingled sweat and come, when he wakes up in the morning.

Sam lays Dean on his belly. He’s too eager to take much time exploring. He’s been waiting so long for John to leave and his lust is burning, fanned by their earlier kiss (and it was _theirs_ , even if Dean wasn’t participating) and aggravated by Dean’s unknowing, stinging, rejection.

He pulls Dean’s loose jeans and boxers completely off, baring Dean’s calves and thighs and ass to his ravenous gaze. He runs his palms along Dean’s legs, over the cheeks of his ass. The bruises he sucked and nipped into the soft meant of Dean’s thighs and cheeks have faded. Disappointment startles him when he realizes he can’t put them right back.

There are things he can do, though, he can have, and he doesn’t have to wait for another party or another girl with rough rumors surrounding her. He doesn’t have to wait for anything.

He yanks his own clothes off, shirt and jeans and underwear. He wants to feel Dean against every inch of his skin.

The bottle of lube he has stashed under his bed, where Dean won’t find it, is cold when he yanks it from its hiding place. If Dean were awake, if Dean wanted this, he would probably make Sam warm it up, would probably whine if Sam squirted it chilled and wet directly onto his hole.

But Dean isn’t awake. Dean doesn’t want this. But Sam does, wants it so fucking badly he can feel it like the electric beat of his heart. He does want to press the tip of the bottle directly against Dean’s sweet, pink hole, does want to squeeze the lube into it until it glistens in the moonlight like it’s gleaming just to catch Sam’s eye, like it’s drawing him in.

As Sam uncaps the bottle and runs it along the crease of Dean’s ass, he has to take deep, controlled breaths. Part of him can’t believe that tonight,  _finally_ , he’s going to fuck his darling little angel. Part of him can’t believe he’s finally,  _finally_ , going to have his baby brother around his cock, finally going to have him the way he’s wanted for what feels like forever.

The other part of him just can’t  _wait_.

He squirts a stream of lube directly over Dean’s hole. Dean moves slightly in his drugged state, makes a little sound, but doesn’t do much more.

Sam circles the bottle around the rosy rim, spreading the slick and watching the glide of white plastic along the pinkness. It's mesmerizing. 

Eventually, watching isn't enough (hasn't been enough for years). Sam lets the bottle drop from his hand. Keeping one palm smoothing circles on Dean's lower back, he brushes the tips of his fingers over the slick rosebud. He bites his lip as the pads of his fingers slide and slip and soak in the heat. 

Then Dean squirms, head tossing from one side of the pillow to the other. Sam doesn't pull away. Instead he presses the tip of his index finger into that dark, beautiful space and scrapes the rim with the blunt edge of his nail. His angel's mouth falls open, beatific, and his nose scrunches.

In the hammer beat of Sam's heart, he wants his baby brother to wake up. He wants to watch pretty eyes flutter open, wants to hear the gasp and soft  _Sammy_ , wants - he wants, he just - he just  _wants_...

He pushes his finger in further. A full body shudder shakes Dean but doesn't wake him. Sam doesn't know if he's frustrated or relieved. 

Licking his lips, he decides to concentrate on the blistering heat and suffocating tightness of Dean's ass around his finger. His focus, his entire world, narrows to the slick push and pull of his finger inside his brother's beautiful body. 

Sam tries to resist touching himself, but as he slides another finger into his angel, the violent twitch of his cock has him running his palm along the length before he can stop himself. He moans. He doesn't even try to quiet himself, because it's not like Dean will hear him. He wraps his hand around himself and a pulse of dissatisfaction runs through him. He reminds himself that tonight he won't have to get himself off with his hand, soothes himself with the sight of his fingers disappearing into Dean's pretty body and memories of how good it's felt to come inside Dean's mouth and thoughts of how  _fucking_ good it's going to feel to come inside Dean's ass.

By the time he's got three fingers twisting in and out of his baby brother’s body, Dean's legs are twitching, restless and unsure as a colt. He leans in to kiss Dean's shaking knee and thinks it's good Dean isn't awake. Dean would never let him do this if he were, and if he did, he'd be nervous and jittery, lips twitching wise cracks while his body shuddered in anticipation and uneasiness. It's better this way, Sam tells himself (he isn't sure if he believes it). 

It's almost a shame when Sam eases his fingers from Dean's body, but he knows things will only get better once he does. He stretches to fish a condom from his nightstand. As much as he would like to fuck Dean raw (fuck him raw and sloppy and messy, eat his come right out of that tighthotwet hole, see it leak from Dean's red, round ass) he can't leave any evidence of what he's doing tonight. He pretends it's Dean's preference, imagines the face twisted in disgust and indignation, so bitchy and sweet, Dean would make if Sam asked to fuck him bare, pictures the whine Dean would make about the mess. The fantasy is almost enough to calm him as he rolls the Trojan on. 

In a move that's becoming comfortingly familiar, Sam stretches himself along Dean's body. He releases a heavy breath at the contact of so much of Dean's glorious skin sliding against his, at the feeling of the head of his dick nudging Dean's soft ass. Reaching between them, he positions the thick head at Dean's hole. It slips against the slick of lube. He clenches his jaw and guides himself, slowly, into the only place he wants to be.

The slide in isn't as easy as he thought it would be. There is more resistance and he has to push hard, too hard, has to grit his teeth and jerk his hips to push the flared head of his dick through the rim. Dean makes soft, hurt little noises that sound more enticing than Sam thinks they should. 

"Shh," Sam whispers against the back of Dean's neck. He's hoping Dean's subconscious will catch on the soothing sound of his big brother's voice and relax Dean's body. "Shh, baby. S'okay, s'okay, gonna - "

Sam trails off in a grunt as he sinks deeper. Dean's mewls of discomfort sharpen and his body squirms under Sam's weight. Frustration bubbles acidic from Sam's lips and his next words are harsher than he means them to be. "Dammit, Dean, just - just - just stop. Just let me. God - God dammit, Dean, just fucking - fuck. 

Dean's body goes limp as Sam sinks fully inside. Sam's eyes flutter closed in pleasure that crosses far past the line of pain. 

"Dean," he breathes, reverent and nearly broken. His neck goes boneless as his forehead falls against Dean's hair. He inhales the sweet, angelic scent. "Baby."

Sam gives a tentative, shallow thrust. His angel makes another pained noise, twitches, but Sam presses his hands against Dean's shoulder blades to keep him still. As he starts to move deeper, faster, better, Dean makes more noises. At one point Dean's hands even come up to the sides of his head, fingers scrambling and gripping and pulling the pillow.

Sam just whispers, "Shh, baby, Dean, shh," until he can't form coherent words or thoughts anymore. 

He loses himself completely in the tight heat of his angel's body. It's salvation and damnation and escape all rolled together, chaotic and fucking beautiful. Every ache and pain from every loss he's had seeps from his pores with each sharp thrust. He jerks reckless and ruthless and rudderless, pushing inside of Dean's body so hard it shakes his bed. It's almost too tight, too hard, pressure almost painful around his cock, but it's by the far the best thing he's ever known. Dean's ass clenches around him like his baby brother is trying to trap him inside and honestly, Sam can't think of a better place to be. 

It doesn't take long for Sam to come. Dean is gasping in pain beneath him but it sounds so fucking hot Sam doesn't even have to pretend their moans of pleasure to get off. He lets the noises drown him, lets the blistering heat of Dean's asshole burn him, lets the tight squeeze of Dean's body drain the breath from him, and in the overwhelming pleasure, he spills. He comes with a harsh, wild noise, filling the condom and branding the slick walls of Dean's ass with his heat. 

For several moments, Sam can't move. He just collapses onto his brother and breathes in the scent of sex. 

Sam doesn't want to pull out. He waits until his cock has softened almost completely inside of Dean before he slides away. Dean makes an almost delicate noise of pain and his body shudders. Sam runs his hand over the back of Dean's head, feeling his skull and the softness of his sweat damp hair.

He stands up and rolls the condom off. He fishes a fast food sack from his trash and drops the condom in it before pushing it down to the bottom of the can. Before heading to the bathroom, he walks over to the bed, gaze running over Dean's trembling body. His brother is so damn beautiful it still takes his breath away. All Sam wants is to crawl into bed, wrap his arms around his angel and drift to sleep. He still has his mess to clean up, though. His jaw twitches as he gives one last lingering look.

He pads naked down the hall to his bathroom then wets a washcloth, grabs his hand soap, a clean towel, and heads back to his Dean. 

Dean has stopped shaking by the time he gets back. He smiles. 

Sam slides in next to Dean. He knows he needs to clean Dean up sooner than later, but he has to take a few moments to just soak in the warmth of Dean's skin and bask in the afterglow of finally, finally making love to his baby brother the way he's wanted to for years. 

When he moves down the bed to sit by Dean's legs, his gaze catches on the angry red rim of Dean's asshole. It's puffed and as Sam brushes his fingers against it he feels the fire sink into his skin. Dean looks  _used_ and Sam's cock twitches. He moves to lay a gentle kiss to the raw opening. Dean will probably hurt in the morning. 

Sam feels bad, he does, but not guilty, not regretful. If he hadn't had to wait so long, if Dean hadn't squirmed, if Dean had just spread his pretty legs for Sam years ago, he could have prepped Dean more, eased him into the fucking, eased him onto Sam's cock. He could have been gentle. 

Shaking his head, flinging his thoughts away, he the soaked washcloth down the crease of Dean's ass. He tries to keep his movements soft as he wipes the mess from Dean's hole. He lays it over Dean's ass and uses the tip of his finger to push it inside then swirls and twists the cloth. After he pulls the washcloth away, he squirts a dollop of soap onto Dean's skin, a cold, medical mimic of his earlier frantic and hungry preparations. He uses the cloth to lather the soap, clean the evidence of his love and adoration from Dean's body, and uses the towel to wipe him dry. 

Sam runs his palms over the warm cheeks of Dean's ass. Something in him feels unsettled at having cleaned Dean so thoroughly, of  _having_ to clean Dean, like Sam's love and touch was somehow dirty, like fucking Dean really did sully him the way he seems to think it would. Frowning, Sam eases Dean onto his back. Sam settles by his side, leaning on his elbows, and kisses Dean until the ugly feelings fade. 

 -

Cheerful chirping and a butter soft ray of sunlight draws Sam into the waking world. He blinks slowly, stretching, hands patting the mattress for a warm body he groggily knows won’t be there.

It’s a disgustingly early hour of the morning. Sam stares at his alarm clock, foggy brain barely processing the time, but consciousness is already buzzing through him.

He rolls to his side and presses his face against the bed. He breathes in the scent of Dean, of sex, and grins. Keeping his nose buried in the smell and warmth and memory of last night, he trails his fingertips down his stomach and wraps them around his hardening dick. He jerks off breathing in the scent of him and Dean’s love.

After lying sated in bed for a few more minutes, he rolls himself out and throws on a pair of sweats. He takes a run around the neighborhood, something he hasn’t done in months, and when he gets back to the house he’s sweaty and physically exhausted, but mentally he feels exhilarated.

He takes a quick shower. He would throw on some bacon for breakfast but it’s still a few hours before Dean will be waking up, so instead he makes himself a huge omelet and sparks up a joint in the living room.

There's a History Channel special about Nazis and the Occult. Usually Sam would roll his eyes when he flipped across something like that, but the combination of Dean and kush in his lungs has him settling on it while he eats. After the show, he pulls out his laptop to triple check the special's sources. 

He smokes another joint then has to curl on the couch for a weed nap. He dreams of soft skin under his hands and sweet heat around him. When he wakes up, he can taste Dean's sweat on his tongue. His palm drifts to rub himself through his sweats. Lazily, dreamily, still half asleep, half high from kush and Dean, he glances at the clock and sees it's just past 3:00 PM. 

Conscious that Dean could walk down to find him stroking himself off on the couch, he slides his hand under the waistband of his sweats and jacks himself to the memories of last night. He comes to the phantom echo of Dean's little noises, making an absolute mess of his fist and pants. Sighing, he peels himself off the couch and makes his way up to his room to change. 

He throws on a pair of basketball shorts. He thinks he'll take Dean out to the court near their neighborhood. They haven't been out there all summer. The day is hotter than hell but Sam's never minded heat, and he wants to see Dean smiling and drenched, sweat rolling down his body like rain. Dean might even shuck his shirt in the summer sun. Sam licks his lips.

He walks to Dean's room and wraps his hand around the doorknob, but when he pulls, it only jiggles in his hand.

Dread clenches ice cold and glacier heavy in his gut. Dean never locks his door. Never.

"Dean?" he rasps. He raps lightly at the door. "Dean, are you awake? Dean?"

"Go away."

Sam sucks in a sharp, terrified breath. He knows Dean knows. Dean has to know; locking the door, telling him off, sounding so ragged - Dean has to know. Desperation and horror bloom like an atom bomb exploding in his chest. His kneels feel weak. His skin feels too tight. His heart aches. 

"Dean," he says desperately. "Dean, I'm - I - " 

The rustling sound of Dean rolling out of bed and padding to the door shakes Sam further. His mind is utterly blank, flashing nothing but too bright white light behind his eyes. He takes an unsteady step back as Dean unlocks the door and cracks it open.

There are dark circles under Dean's eyes. When Sam looks into them, there is no light. 

"Dean..." 

"Just - " Dean starts, voice rough and ragged. He runs his hand over his face in a gesture of exhaustion. "God, how much did I drink last night?"

Sam blinks. Relief floods him and he welcomes it clogging his lungs. 

"I feel like shit," Dean mutters.

"You didn't - " Sam begins. 

The sharp contrast of emotions has left him feel dizzy with elation. God, he had thought everything was over. Everything. But it's not over. It's...it's fine. Everything is fine. Nothing is broken. Dean still loves him. His angel hasn't forsaken him. 

The lies fall from his tongue easy as sin.

"You only had two," Sam says. "Does your back hurt?"

Dean stiffens. "Why - " he mumbles shakily. He closes his eyes, breathes out slowly through his nose, and asks softly, almost fearfully, "Why?"

Sam smiles sheepishly. "I - you fell asleep on the couch. I tried to carry you to your room but I - uh, fuck. I dropped you." He winces. "I'm so, so, so sorry Dean. I didn't mean to. You were just - I was tipsy and you were heavier than I thought you were. Did I hurt you? I am - shit, Dean, I am  _so_ sorry."

Dean breathes a heavy sigh of relief. "You fuck," he whispers with no heat. "Can't believe you fucking dropped me."

"I am sorry," Sam repeats. "Shit. I felt awful. Knew you were gonna feel it this morning. At least we didn't keep you up all night, right?"

Then Dean blinks, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes in confusion. "Who? What?"

Sam tilts his head too. "You didn't hear when Jess and Gabriel and some of their friends showed up last night? I tried to keep them quiet but...you know Gabriel. None of them made too much noise when they came up here to use the bathroom?"

"Someone was up here?" Dean asks quickly. His eyes are wide. 

"Uh, yeah, a couple. There like 10 people here. You didn't - "

"How could you let them up here?" Dean sounds almost panicked, voice high and shaking. "You knew I'd - I've been having - how could - how - "

"Dean, hey - calm down, buddy, okay? I'm sorry. I didn't think any of them would mess with you. Just tell me what they did, okay, and I'll kick their ass, swear to God."

Dean is shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut. The hand he has wrapped around the door is shaking. Sam lays his own hand over his brother's, a gesture of solidarity and comfort, an excuse to touch him, but at the brush of Sam's skin against his, Dean yanks his hand away. His eyes fly open and he stares at Sam in silent but deafening apology. There is a pleading in his gaze that Sam has never seen. It's a plea for Sam to calm him, fix things. Sam can imagine, though; imagine what it would like if Dean were underneath him, offering up those shaking eyes, begging. Sam can imagine it easily. 

"I don't - " Dean manages between deep, frantic intakes of breath. "I don't - I d-don't remember. I can't. I can't. I  _c-can't_  - "

"Hey," Sam whispers. He uses his foot to push the door open wider. Dean lets him come into the room, lets him wrap his arms around Dean's shaking frame. Dean is stiff for a few moments before sagging against Sam's weight. He buries his face in Sam's shirt. "It's okay Dean, buddy, I got you. It's okay."

"It's not," Dean says fiercely into his shirt. Sam can feel dampness seeping through the fabric. He runs his hands soothingly over Dean's back. "Sammy, I think - I think someone - they..."

"What?" Sam asks in his softest voice. Dean feels so good in his arms, so warm and sturdy even as he's falling apart. Sam hates that Dean has to hurt for Sam to be allowed to hold him like this. "You can tell me, bro. Anything. What happened?"

"I don't know," Dean sobs quietly. "I can't remember. I can't remember anything."

"Shh," Sam soothes. Dean flinches at the sound, tries to back away, but Sam tightens his hold until his brother calms. "We'll figure it out, all right, and everything will be okay. You'll be okay. I promise."

Sam continues rubbing comfort along Dean's back. He runs the tip of his nose along Dean's hairline. He almost dares to drop a kiss to Dean's head, but he doesn't; he doesn't know if he could stop at that. Instead, he whispers soothing nothings. 

As his brother cries, Sam decides the next time, he'll have Dean's mouth and ass. He grins into Dean's hair. 


	4. Chapter Four Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m posting the first part of Chapter 4 now since it’s been soo long since I updated. Part two of 4 should be up this weekend!

Dean sleeps through the rest of the day. Sam finds himself restless and lonely, shuffling through his empty home, but he lets his little brother rest.  
   
It feels strange, as if his living room is a too bright, sterile lobby, as if he's just waiting for his angel's rebirth. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that's exactly what it is: a cycle is rolling, cleansing off the dead weight of Sam's shame and bitterness, cleansing the tendrils of connection that have kept Dean from Sam for too long.  
   
Tomorrow, when Dean wakes up, he's going to be different. Sam is going to be different. Everything is going to be different. Sam doesn't know how but he can feel something fundamental shifting in the air around him.  
   
He knows Dean will feel it, too.  
   
-  
   
True to the oddly gentle aches in his gut, Sam wakes the next morning and feels reborn.  
   
He shuffles down the stairs to find Dean at the breakfast table. There is a slump in his broad shoulders that is more exhaustion than poor posture and his bare feet drag slowly across the floor, toes making little patterns that Sam tries desperately to follow. Sam gives up on translating them, instead letting his gaze drift over the baggy sweats and baggy shirt Dean has donned. Dean looks so small, so young, fragile like bird bones. Sam almost worries that a touch will shatter him.  
   
Until it hits him that those are his grey sweat pants, his old t-shirt from a blood drive he helped organize his junior year of high school. Dean is swaddled like a newborn in Sam's scent, Sam's ownership, and everything inside of him pulses with possession and a bone deep thrum of satisfaction.  
   
"Good morning, sunshine." Sam doesn't really know how he pushes the words through his dry throat.  
   
Dean peers over his shoulder and a sleepy if somewhat dim smile spreads over his lips. It reminds Sam of the day before, of Dean's dark eyes, and something unpleasant and ugly rolls through him. He shakes it, rolls his shoulders and lets it slough to the tiled floor.  
   
Dean is just...processing, changing, dealing. After he realizes Sam is the only person he can trust, the only safe place, is home, he'll be precocious, sweet and sour, beautiful Dean again.  
   
"Morning," Dean says softly.  
   
Sam walks behind him and slowly, carefully, rests his hand on Dean's shoulder. He doesn't want to startle his brother but he wants to show him, gently, that Sam's touch is actually the only one that won't burn him. Dean doesn't flinch but he doesn't relax into the warmth Sam offers, either. Sam releases a shallow breath before turning.  
   
"Want some orange juice?" he asks.  
   
"Yeah." Sam pulls the bottle out of the fridge and moves to the cupboard when Dean says, "Thanks, Sammy. For...y'know, for taking care of me."  
   
Sam's hand pauses on a glass. "Dean..." he huffs, almost laughing, but his throat is too dry for anything as light as laughter. "You don't have to thank me for doing anything for you. I - " He stumbles, licks his lips. "I love you."  
   
He glances over his shoulder to see Dean smile, soft, the barest pull of his pretty lips, and to see color rise sea light on his neck.  
   
"Yeah, well... I'm pretty loveable," Dean finally says, bravado edging the exhaustion from his voice, and Sam smiles as he pours the orange juice. There's his boy. "Guess you can't really help it, huh?"  
   
"Nope," Sam answers, honest and raw. "I really can't."  
   
-  
   
The first night was a glorious stumble. The next nights were fire drenched fantasies brought to life.  
   
These nights, though, are hot, wet calculations. They are now more than moments stolen to relieve Sam's unbearable need. They are now more than treasures he's won in the game he's constructed. These are nights Sam is spinning with purpose, rough hands weaving movements and moments into a new, more appealing tapestry.  
   
Dean's bewilderment at the bruises and aches which have littered his body bred distrust, discomfort and doubt. The embers which made him so brightly beautiful are dimming but Sam knows he can stow the flames back. He will make them burn hotter, so hot Dean will shiver under his sweat, and every shiver will be for Sam, every drop of sweat will be for Sam's thirsty tongue and throat.  
   
Tonight is a new night.  
   
Dean expects to slide his eyes open tomorrow morning and find new, unmistakable but unexplained feelings. It's even more distressing for him since he hasn't left the house in days.  
   
It does hurt to watch Dean flinch and tremble, but Sam soothes his own ache with the surety that soon Dean will be his in the daylight. When thoughts of the shining future aren't enough, Sam soothes himself with Dean's body.  
   
It's 3:00 AM and Sam is ripped to shreds from watching Dean mope softly around the house, listening to his quiet, quiet voice refuse sunshine, reading the ache obvious in his brain and heart. Sam is sewing his muscles back methodically as he bites his lips, holds his breath, stills his hips and tries not to come.  
   
He's got Dean on his side, his cock buried deep in Dean's ass, his balls resting against Dean's skin, burning warm like a summer haze. Sam's vision is even blurry with it. His room is dark, earthly objects distant, static waves. The pleasure crackling through his skin is intergalactic electric and he's spinning slick on frozen fire, out of control with the sounds the warm, thick pressure of his cock fucks from Dean's mouth.  
   
Dean was more aware, earlier, the late night drawing his eyes half-lidded (like he'd been fucked hard, like he'd come hard, like he was ready to curl against Sammy's slide, sleepy and sated and safe) but no alcohol or weed in his veins to lull him into sleep. Tonight's roofie had slid down his throat with a gulp of cherry Coke. He'd only been half-asleep when Sam had coaxed him to bed. He'd only been a little more than that when Sam had slipped into bed behind him.  
   
It had been so sweet, so tender, more so than any other moment Sam had stolen with Dean, but that was the point. Sam has a goal, now, a goal more pressing than his dark and immediate lust. To win this game, he has to show Dean that Sam is the only safe, good place; that happiness and satisfaction wasn't going to be found with quiet blue eyes or a string of soft, cherry curves.  
   
Sam had run his fingertips slowly down Dean's spine, watching with a smile and blown eyes as Dean's legs shifted in his almost-sleep.  
   
"Feels nice," Dean had breathed against his pillow.  
   
"Take your shirt off," Sam had said softly. "I'll give you the chills until you fall asleep."  
   
"M'kay. Jus' don't try to cop a feel, 'kay? My - " yawn, light smacking of too plush lips " - my, uh, lady lumps are not for handling."  
   
Sam had chuckled.  
   
It hadn't taken long before Dean's shoulder blades had fluttered in steady, even breaths. Sam had pushed himself flush against Dean's body, ran his left hand along Dean's side, and for several moments just watched the slide of his body on his angel's skin. Dean had murmured, still asleep, at the brush of Sam's hair on his cheek as Sam leaned down to kiss Dean's jaw, the soft lobe of his ear, his throat.  
   
At one point, Sam had sucked a slick inch of skin on the back of Dean's neck into his mouth. He'd been humming around the sweetness when his angel had stirred.  
   
"'ammy?" Dean had mumbled. He'd tried to tilt his neck, squirm from Sam's teeth, but Sam hadn't withdrawn his fangs or venom. Dean had tried to haphazardly slap Sam away. "Mmm, stop what...whatever you're doin', tickles."  
   
Sam had stopped, only to press a kiss to the spit slick skin. "Go back to sleep, buddy. I gotcha."  
   
"Jus' don' tickle me." Dean had snuggled deeper into his pillow, sighing. "Kick your ass catch you tryna tickle me."  
   
Consciousness hadn't fully left his little brother then; it ebbed thinly between Dean's eyes, keeping his mouth, pain and pleasure at the surface, letting his body feel Sam's mouth and dick (his desire, devotion) while his brain drifted.  
   
Dean's body had gone taut and a breathy, beautiful, but pained whimper had left his lips when Sam sunk a slick finger in his hole. Sam had soothed him, kissed the warm skin of his ass and the sweet flutter of his hole. Even as Dean bucked against the next finger, his asshole had sucked Sam in, all welcoming heat and obscene tightness, like Dean's body was a starving, needy thing that only Sam could satisfy.  
   
Now Sam is rocking slow, shallow thrusts, barely drawing his cock from Dean's ass. He has one arm propped under his head, relieving the ache in his neck and allowing him a view of Dean's pretty profile. He keeps glancing between Dean's sleep-stop-more furrowed brow, Dean's open-on-a-yes-no-yes gap, and Dean's cock, pressing full and wet and sweet against his belly. The hand that had been learning the curve of Dean's hipbone slides to the blood hot, pumping velvet.  
   
He brushes his fingertips over Dean's sac, runs them from the base of Dean's cock to the tip. His thumb slips over the warm wet dripping thick from Dean's slit and he groans into Dean's hair.  
   
"Wet for me," he murmurs, dizzied, brain wild.  
   
Dean is wet for him, hard for him: for Sam's cock moving slow, steady and sweet in his ass, for Sam's cock splitting his body apart and filling the utter emptiness. Dean moan-whine-whimpers and that's for Sam's cock, too, because of the way Sam fucks him with it, is rebuilding him with it.  
   
He picks up speed, fucking to come instead of just to revel in his angel's heat and beauty.  
   
Dean makes a wounded noise and Sam can't help but jerk around him, tighten the grip of his huge hand on Dean's pulsing dick, because he's hurting Dean but he's hurting him so  _good_ , making Dean's full cock twitch and jerk. He jacks Dean off, clumsy with his own pounding blood and rushing orgasm. They come, Dean's fever hot come spilling over Sam's knuckles, Sam filling the condom. As he pants in the aftermath, he isn't even sure which one of them came first.  
   
Before he slides out, he brings his hand to his mouth and licks his little brother, sticky and sweet as hard pink candy, from his fingers.  
   
Sam leaves his angel's body with the same reluctance and restless satisfaction he always does. He ties off the condom, throws it in the trash, and flutters a few papers over it. He heads to his bathroom for a wet cloth.  
   
When he crawls back into his brother's bed, he gives himself several moments to just hold the warm, sated body he cherishes and debauches so dearly. The smell of sex, the heat of summer sliding from Dean's open window, the promise of the impossibly wet, impossibly hot slide of Dean's mouth, rushes the blood back to his cock. Eventually his dick is throbbing again, ravenous for his brother's body again, and he slides to his knees.  
   
He rubs the sponge soft, coal hot and hard head of his cock over Dean's parted lips, painting a picture just as pretty as the first time he coated Dean's cotton candy mouth with his pre-come.  
   
Images, unbidden, tendril thick as fog behind his eyes: Dean's eyes widening as he consciously swallows Sam's cock for the first time, Dean's cheeks hollowing as he sucks, Dean's eyes fluttering wild, tearing, as his throat closes around the thick veins pulsing along Sam's dick.  
   
That’s how Sam comes for the second time that night: the feeling of Dean’s mouth moving slack against his cock, thoughts of Dean’s first voluntary blowjob teasing him in his head. He jerks before he spills, hurriedly wrapping his cockhead with the washcloth before soaking it.  
   
Sam fumbles in a Dean-doped haze through the rest of the cleanup. Hope is thrumming light through the heavy trenches of his want and desperation.  
   
Soon Dean won’t even remember why he was so terrified and disgusted of Sam’s touch, will only know that Sam’s touch is the only touch he wants.  
   
-  
   
The next week passes in a blur.  
   
Sam fucks Dean almost every night.  
   
He rubs his cock over the sharp cut of Dean's hipbones, soaks the skin in come, pants as he watches it dry tacky and damning and owning on Dean's skin.  
   
He licks Dean from a limp line nestled softly between his thighs to a dripping mess, then brings him off just by sucking and tonguing the head of his cock. Dean twitches and moans and hitches his hips and flings his hands; at one point he even raises his neck, straining as he looks with closed eyes down the length of his body.   
   
He licks Dean's hole, pressing in as close and deep and dirty as he can. If Dean won't let him do this when he's awake, this will be the only thing Sam will miss: the taste of Dean, the feeling of rough skin softening into a slick, delicate inside, the way Dean's asshole flutters around his tongue, the way Dean's hips move as if he's embarrassed by Sam's attentions even in his sleep, the way Dean's smell and flavor envelops, saturates him.  
   
(Surely Sam can convince his little angel to kneel and spread for him, though. Surely.)  
   
Dean is a mess every morning. His eyes are red rimmed and he grimaces when he moves, as if his very bones ache, but he won't take the aspirin or joint Sam offers him. He moves more slowly, more gingerly, reminding Sam of a fawn who stumbles with prey's grace through its first spring. He is wounded, gorgeous and tempting in his pain, but Sam gentles himself to accommodate it.  
   
-  
   
It sends a thrill through Sam's very soul when Dean ignores the calls and texts that shake his phone.   
   
"You gonna answer that?" Sam asks on Thursday afternoon as Castiel’s ringtone plays.  
   
Dean just shrugs, doesn't take his eyes from his car racing down the screen, and Sam smiles, smug and just to himself.  
    
-  
   
On Saturday, Meg bangs on their front door until Sam, still in his pajamas, opens the door.  
   
She is flanked on either side by reinforcements; Jo stands at her right, arms crossed, and Charlie stands at her left, looking only mildly uncomfortable.   
   
"Um," Sam blinks through the sleep clinging to his eyes. "Hi?"  
    
"Where the fuck is he?"  
   
Sam furrows his brow. "Who?" he asks. Glancing at the clock, he looks back to her and adds, "Did you know it was like 9 in the morning?"  
   
Meg rolls her eyes. "Where's the little one?"   
    
"She means Dean," Charlie clarifies.  
   
"Oh," Sam says, voice still slurred with sleep, but his spine straightens at his angel's name. He rolls his shoulders, casual, but it gives him an excuse to pull himself to his full height, loom broad and bright in the doorway. He moves forward minutely but enough that he can edge the door closed. "He's sleeping."  
    
"Well wake him the hell up."  
   
Sam narrows his eyes. "Are you here for a reason, Meg? We don't keep pills in the house, so if you're here to raid the bathrooms..."  
    
"Oh fuck off, Winchester," she snaps, eyes slit. "Can you just get him?"  
   
"He's not returning anyone’s texts," Charlie says. Her eyes are earnest when Sam meets them. "Or calls. Or e-mails. Is he...is he mad at us?"  
   
"If he is, he needs to just put on his big girl panties and get over it," Jo says. Her voice is harsh but her lips tremble, uncertainty and a soft, gentle strand of yearning on her features.  
   
"He's been sick,” Sam lies easily. “All he does is sleep. I'm sure once he feels better, he'll - "  
   
"I don't really care how sick he's been," Meg interrupts. "My supporting cast has been useless because they miss that motherfucker  _soooo_  much. Cas can't do anything without his boyfriend around. Hell, even I..." She licks her lips. "Even I wouldn't mind having him trailing around again."  
   
The girls at her side turn to her simultaneously, clearly surprised.  
   
"What?" she snaps with a shrug. "Having him stare at my ass all the time is an ego booster, okay? And I really can’t take Cas being stuck in lost puppy mode. So just...go get your brother."  
   
"He's sleeping," Sam repeats, more firmly this time.  
   
"Well when he wakes up, tell him to stop being such a girl and get his ass in gear," Jo says.  
   
"And give him this," Charlie says, pushing a program for the community playhouse musical into his hands. "We'll be looking for both of you tonight."  
   
-  
   
"Meg said she missed me?" Dean asks, eyebrows raised, as he looks over the program. "Woah."  
   
"I think that was the...essence of her message," Sam answers. He shrugs, tries to appear nonchalant. "Sort of."  
   
"Well, Hell must've frozen over. You didn't see any pigs flying behind her, did you?"  
   
"She said Cas missed you," Sam adds carefully.  
   
His footsteps have to be light now; Dean is on shaken ground but one wrong move and Sam could be gluing his baby brother back together with the very things he's been trying to keep from Dean's skin.   
   
"I'm sure she did," Dean says after a few moments. A cold smile plays on his lips, no hint of warmth. Sam taps his foot. "I'm sure he - " Dean shakes his head. "Whatever. I'm not going to this."  
   
"It's up to you," Sam offers immediately, but internally he's cheering.  
   
"I told you I was gonna kick your ass at Battleship and I'm gonna kick your as at Battleship."  
   
Dean's face is resolute, eyes shining with a hint of that spirit which always pulls Sam up and apart and holds him together. Sam's glad to see it sparkle again; even more glad (thrilled) that the spark is all his, now: because of him, for him. He grins and Dean's face breaks, angel white waves splitting on black mountains. Dean's smile is as beautiful, as bright, as ever.  
   
-  
   
That night, Sam doesn't fuck Dean.   
   
Instead, he curls around Dean's body and draws patterns on his back (his skin, Zepplin shirt strewn over the edge of the bed) as he drifts to sleep. When Dean's soft snores float through the room, Sam doesn't move. He stays with his chest to Dean's back, their hearts beating in tandem, until sunlight peaks unwelcome through the window.  
   
Sam wakes up first. He doesn't leave; just breathes and watches the light illuminate the freckles on Dean's naked back. He tries to count them, loses count, tries again. He's on his third attempt when Dean stirs.  
   
Dean rubs his eyes. When Dean moves to stretch, his arm collides with Sam's face.  
   
"Fuck!" Dean hisses. He turns quickly to his side.  
   
Sam has a palm over his eye, face scrunched. "Good morning to you too."  
   
"What the hell are you - " Dean demands. His eyes are wide, and underneath the wild rush of bewilderment his wounded spirit beats. "Why are you in my bed?"  
   
"I just fell asleep," Sam says quickly, attempting to soothe any doubts that may be darkening Dean's thoughts. "I was..."  
   
He trails off, because he can see suspicions he was sure Dean had never given a moment’s thought to become clear shadows on Dean's face.  
   
Sam supposes he should have thought this through: of course finding Sam in his bed would send Dean on an ugly downward spiral. He reminds himself that he didn't fuck Dean, though, didn't touch him, and there will be no new aches or marks or strange, unsettling feelings in Dean's gut.  
   
There is still nothing to point to Sam as the crack in Dean's spirit.  
   
"Man," he huffs, dragging a hand over his face. "Must've been more ripped than I thought. After you fell asleep I was gonna.... I remember I was gonna go to sleep. I remember thinking my room seemed really far away and your bed was so nice..."  _And you were so warm, so soft, smelled so good, I didn’t want to leave; I wanted to go to sleep holding you, wake up holding you._  
   
(Sam thinks maybe someday he could fall asleep inside of Dean, cock splitting Dean's body and anchoring them together, and could wake up warm. He wouldn't even have to open his eyes to start fucking Dean again, just roll his hips and let the pleasure crash over him. He could fuck Dean then go right back to sleep. He would never even have to pull out.)   
   
Dean watches him warily for a few more moments, but Sam sees the unease drain from his body as it sags into the mattress.  
   
"Sorry," he whispers, closing his eyes. "Sorry, sorry - "  
   
"Hey," Sam says softly. "Hey, it's okay. I would've screamed like a girl if I found you in my bed, too."  
   
Dean's eyes snap open at that. "I didn't scream," he says. "I was just...not expecting to wake up with a moose in my bed."   
   
Thankful for Dean's elastic snap from suspicion to comfort, Sam smiles and hits his little brother in the face with a pillow.  
   
-  
   
A documentary on the Little Bastard (Dean's eyes lit up when Sam found it on History channel) is scrolling across the screen when the doorbell rings. Dean, who overcame his spooked senses and has been lying with his head lolled on Sam's shoulder, jerks.  
   
"Shit," he mutters, startled into a sitting position. Sam's arm tingles, cold without Dean's warmth.   
    
"I'll get it.”  
   
When he moves to stand up, Dean wraps warm fingertips around his elbow.  
   
Sam inhales a sharp breath at the gentle, familiar,  _intimate_  contact.  
   
Dean licks his lips (Sam exhales even sharper, cuts his mouth on the sting of want) before saying, "No, I'll - I can get the damn door, Sammy."  
   
Sam is going to insist that he sit, relax, listen to the crackpot theories on possessed cars, but he finds himself unable to deny the whisper of Dean's skin on his own. Even at the surety that it's Dean's little friends huddled outside again, Sam can't speak. Dean's touch knocks his knees from under him and he finds himself sinking back to the couch.  
   
The little smile Dean offers him pulls a grin from his own lips. A sense of impending victory begins to flutter in his lungs. Sam wonders if Dean is going to slam the doors in their faces and smiles even wider at the thought of Meg's scandalized expression.  
   
It's not Meg's voice that drifts from the sunny day into the chill of the house, though. Sam's legs snap into action before his brain fully processes the movement.  
   
"Dean!" an eager voice grunts.  
   
Sam moves into the entryway to see Garth warp lanky arms around his brother. Dean tenses at the touch, goes still and taut, and doesn't return the affection.  
   
"Um," Garth coughs, clearly embarrassed, and begins to pull away. "Sorry, dude, I just - "  
   
The fragile sense of mortification and distress is enough to trip Dean's internal nurturer, soother, and he brings his own arms to Garth's shoulder before the teen can fully release him.  
    
Dean delivers two firm pats to Garth's shoulder, his signal that their bro-hug is drifting into un-bro territory, and lets his arms fall.  
   
Before he can say anything, another body pops through the doorway. Sam recognizes the mullet before anything else. Dean grunts at the force of Ash's arms encircling him, then laughs, easy and clear, a laugh Sam hasn't heard in weeks, and returns the embrace.  
   
"I've missed you so much man.”  
   
Dean pats his friend's shoulder comfortingly while he glances at Sam. He tries to portray annoyance but Sam can read the warmth simmering in his pretty face.   
   
"Okay, okay, let the man go," Garth says. When Ash doesn't comply, Garth grabs a fistful of Ash's shirt and yanks him past the doorway.  
   
"Hello, Dean."  
   
Every fiber of Sam sharpens at the solemn greeting. His fingers shake as they fold into his palm. He hadn't even noticed that Cas standing outside as well. He narrows his eyes.  
   
"Cas," his brother breathes, as if they haven't seen one another for years, as if they last parted with tearful stars in their eyes and have found each other half-way across the globe. Sam grits his teeth.  
   
Cas smiles as wide as Sam has ever seen him. Dean doesn't return the expression.  
   
"We did not see you at last night's performance," Cas says, joyful expression faltering.  
   
"Wasn't feeling well," Dean offers, shrugging. He looks to Ash and Garth, gaze softening as he adds, "Sorry. I'm sure you guys were awesome."  
   
"Oh we totally were not," Garth says. "I fell off the stage, twice, and Cas could hardly remember any of his lines..."  
   
Cas drops his gaze to his shoes. "I wasn't able to concentrate," he says softly. He glances at Dean, then, eyes shining with something pitifully. "I've been finding it difficult to concentrate for the past few weeks."  
   
Dean bristles, taking a small but defining step back. At the movement, Cas's eyes fall again.  
   
"I've been," Dean begins. He cuts his gaze to Sam, eyes shining brilliant in the summer sun, asking a silent question Sam can't hear. Sam nods his head slightly anyway and Dean licks his lips. "I've been kinda sick. Must be a summer cold or something. Haven't wanted to get you guys sick."  
   
"I told he had a good reason for ditching us," Ash whispers.  
   
"And musicals...I mean, come on. You guys know that's not really my thing."  
   
"But you promised Jo," Ash says. "And Charlie. You're gonna make them cry."  
   
"More like kick his ass," Garth adds with a grin.  
   
"Guys," Dean interrupts. Three pairs of eyes turn towards him, hopeful. They remind Sam of puppies, tails wagging, waiting for the hand that comforts and feeds them. "I just... I've just been really sick lately. I don't really want to leave the house for a couple of days."  
   
"It has - " Cas begins. He furrows his brows, as if he's confused at his own attempt to speak. "I am sorry you haven't been feeling well, Dean, but it  _has_  been days since you left."  
   
A sharp wound slices through Dean's eyes. It disappears a moment later.  
   
"Are you contagious? Has your physician advised you not to socialize?" Cas asks earnestly. "Perhaps we can wear masks - "  
   
"It's not - " Dean says, shaking his head. “It’s not like that, Cas.”  
   
The boys are quiet for several moments. Then Cas takes a tentative step forward. Dean takes a step back again and the tense line in Sam's shoulders eases at the wounded expression fluttering over Cas's face.   
"I just need to re-charge," Dean assures them. "Just...clear my head, y'know? I'll call y'all later, okay?"  
   
"Okay, man," Garth says. He and Ash wear similar expressions of confusion and concern. "Just, call, y'know, if you need anything." He moves in for another hug.  
   
After he's pulled away, Ash moves in again. "And try to come to a show. For the girls. It's, uh, important to them."  
   
"Yeah," Dean says, smiling soft but genuine. "The  _girls_  are really missin' me, huh?"  
   
For a moment, Sam thinks it's all over. The boys will shuffle away and he'll have to rip whatever repairs they made apart. But then Cas steps forward, movements slow and obvious so as not to startle Dean, and gently wraps his arms around Dean's shoulders.  
   
"If you do need anything," Cas whispers, lips far too close to the warm lobe of Dean's ear. "We are here for you. I...I am always here for you. For anything."  
   
Dean remains still throughout the exchange. Just as Cas's arms are falling, though, Dean's rise and embrace him. Cas appears startled for a moment before relieve floods his features.  
   
"I know," Dean says  
   
-  
   
Sam fucks Dean twice that night.  
   
He arranges Dean’s liquid languid limbs, spreads his arms wide and crooks them at the elbow.  
   
“Not a doll,” Dean murmurs in his half-sleep, but he allows Sam’s hands to direct the flow of his body.  
   
Dean is so pliant and lovely in these shadowed moments. Drugged with his own fatigue, strung out on the comfort of Sam’s presence and soft touches, he offers every piece of himself. He gives himself over to Sam with such tender trust, Sam aches.  
   
Of course, his baby brother doesn’t remember the thirst or relief he breathes against Sam’s skin in the dark. It’s only exhaustion and the absence of the shame Dean would surely feel about letting himself welt under such wetly breathed affection that’s allowed Sam to slip into bed with him on the pretense of rubbing his back until he falls asleep.  
   
They’ve woken up too many times together for Dean not to realize Sam has been lulling him to sleep, but he was quick to thank Sam for staying with him the second time it happened. Sam was shaken for a moment before realizing Dean didn’t remember how Sam got to his bed; Dean just knew Sam was  _there_ , had assumed that meant Sam was  _there_  for him.  
   
Dean thinks Sam is there to soothe him through the night. He thinks he can’t sleep without Sam a warm, protective presence at his side.  
   
It’s hard enough for Dean to tell Sam that no, he really doesn’t mind if it keeps happening  _(“I just feel…I don’t know, Sammy, better when you’re…” Dean had said, skin flushing the prettiest kiss of pink_ ). Sam suspects it would be even more difficult to admit the weakness if Dean remembered exactly how warm and sweet he was for Sam each night.  
   
“You’ve got a knot,” Sam whispers. “I’ll massage it out for you.”  
   
He’s enthralled with these moments.  
   
When Dean isn’t asleep but he isn’t awake enough to realize how deeply he’s allowing Sam to see. He twists at first, makes gruff sounds against the pillow, but his wounds are so wide Sam can see exactly what his brother is aching for: something to ground him, something he trusts, something to comfort, save and soothe him, make him feel safe and good.  
   
Sam is more than happy to fill the sundered gaps.  
   
It all flows so beautifully, Sam’s certain it’s a dream. He has Dean almost exactly the way he’s been aching so fiercely for. It’s almost perfect.  
   
Tonight, Sam is especially hungry for complete perfection.  
   
He's massaged the tension and awareness from Dean's muscles. His brother is splayed across navy sheets, arms still bent exactly how Sam laid them. Sam licks his lips at the sight of moon pale flesh lying soft and pliant, shaped by Sam's own desire, against midnight blue.  
   
Before Sam's soothing hands and whispers had eased Dean to rest, Sam had knelt at his side to rub the knot from his back. As Dean's lids slowed their fluttering, Sam had swung himself over Dean's body, straddling his thighs. He was careful to angle the hard press of his cock from Dean's body, but now Dean is breathing steady as a stream, and Sam has his denim constricted dick pressed against the crease of Dean's ass.  
   
Sam hunches forward, back and shoulders curled in a predatory cusp. He breathes Dean’s scent. It's intoxicating. He could lose himself in this.  
   
As he squeezes his thighs around Dean's hips, pressing himself hot and teasing against his baby brother, he thinks maybe he already has.  
   
He doesn't care. If his soul is lost to him, at least it's lost in Dean.  
   
He licks the back of Dean's neck until its sweat on his tongue and spit on Dean's skin. His hips roll slow and soft over Dean's body. In the damp, dark quiet of the night, he brushes his lips over Dean's ear, smiles at the twitch of Dean's nose, and whispers.  
   
"Love you," Sam says, a thrill twisting through his chest. Someday, someday soon (not soon enough), Dean will say the words back. The thought yanks Sam's hips, pushes them harder against Dean's ass. "Love you so fucking much. Gonna show you. Make you feel it."  
   
It's easiest to fuck Dean like this, spread like an offering with his soft cheek on the pillow and his body trembling unconsciously at Sam's touch, but Sam isn't yearning for ease. He's aching for the way Dean's jaw slacks, petal soft, the jagged jilt of Dean's body when Sam fucks in hard then harder, the crane fan of Dean's eyelashes so dark and delicate in the pale light.  
   
Dean's body is a rag doll, stuffed of golden straw and Sam; it slips and slides and lolls as Sam maneuvers him to his back. Sam brushes his hand over Dean's heart, feels the steady beat. His own heart is a studded, jack hammer point, beating his chest to a pulp. He kisses Dean, slow and sweet, and the tight ache in his ribs subsides.  
   
Then chilled eyes and a solemn voice crack in Sam's head and the pain is back tenfold.  
   
He thinks of clumsy hands on his brother, a deep voice sinking into the spider web cracks of Dean's mind and expanding to fill Dean in ways only Sam has claim to. He thinks of Cas and the stupid, heavy hug and the tension that had clogged his own throat as he watched them touch.  
   
There is no way he is losing Dean now. Not after he's worked so diligently, been so patient, suffered so dearly and so tenderly and so very, very long. Not when Dean belongs with him, to him. Not ever.  
   
Sam sears one more layer of ownership into Dean's skin as he undresses him. Every inch of skin is claimed again and again until Sam can practically taste his own blood when he licks Dean's throat.  
   
Slicking Dean until he's sloppy, hole clenching even when Sam withdraws his fingers, hungry for Sam's cock even if he doesn't understand the ache in his belly in the daylight, is more difficult with Dean on his back. Sam hooks one of Dean's knees over his shoulder and soldiers through the aches that blooms in his wrist.  
   
It's all worth it when the tips of three fingers find the electric shock spot deep in Dean's body, making his brother take a sharp breath and twist his slack face in pleasure.  
   
Sam grins. He wishes Dean's eyes were open, wishes Dean would try to gasp bravado that would sink into a shuddering moan when Sam brushed his prostate again.  
   
Eyes drifting closed, he kisses Dean's thigh. "Make you feel so good," he breathes against Dean's jumping, bunching muscles. "You're gonna see it, baby, soon you're gonna - gonna know how bad you want this. Want me." He runs his thumb along the crease of Dean's sac and his angel arches, taut and strong and beautiful, ass clenching hard around Sam's fingers. Sam groans, "Fuck. Fuck, Dean, angel - "  
   
His own cock jerks, needy, and he can't deny himself (he won't, because he doesn't have to anymore; soon, he won't have to ever again).  
   
He keeps Dean's calf on his shoulder. Part of him is amazed the deep stretch hasn't woken Dean. He finds himself almost hesitating as his dick nudges Dean's warm, wet hole.  
   
What if this is the night, finally, that Dean wakes up?  
   
After a heartbeat of fear-anticipation, he calms himself. Even if Dean does wake up, find Sam inside of him before he's ready to spread his pretty thighs on his own, Sam has nothing to worry about.  
   
(He wouldn’t even have to stop, he realizes on an sharp breath. Even if Dean told him to, he wouldn't have to, because Dean wouldn't remember Sam not listening, Sam forcing his knees wide, Sam whispering how much he loved him. He  _would_ stop, of course, Sam's not a  _monster_ , and he doesn't want to scare Dean, hurt him - but he wouldn't have to. Oh fuck - oh  _fuck_  - he wouldn't have to.)  
   
The slide of his cock head into Dean's hole is always the most intense, suffocating moment. Sam has to take deep, steadying breaths as he begins to really split his angel open.  
   
When he starts to press in deeper, Dean's brows pinch and his body tenses. Sam tenses, too, unable to breathe, as his baby brother twists beneath him.  
   
"Go back to sleep," Sam says. His words are sharp, Dean's ass squeezing his cock so tightly even his windpipe is struggling to expand. "Shh, everything's okay, go back to sleep."  
   
He sinks in another inch because he just can't still his hips. He hisses at the increase of pressure, pleasure.  
   
Dean's hands twitch at his sides before moving and finding Sam's forearms in the dark. A soft, distressed noise falls from the cradle of his mouth. Sam's dick slides even deeper into his brother's body as he drops his head for a deep kiss.  
   
He swallows the whine Dean makes when he finally bottoms out, pushing his tongue past Dean's pink lips, curling it around Dean's pain, dragging it back behind his own teeth. He lets it tumble down his throat before pushing his own groan into the lava slick of Dean’s mouth.  
   
Sam starts to fuck in and out, unable to roll slowly or softly even as Dean's hole struggles to swallow his dick whole. But he has to set the words Ash and Garth spoke on fire, burn Castiel's touch clean, turn a life outside of Sam's arms into ashes. He has to fuck in hard and fast, brutal snaps of his hips, the sound of his cock pushing into Dean's lube soaked hole a sharp squish in the silent night, to ignite it.  
   
One particularly swift, hungry thrust has Dean's head bumping the headboard.  
   
"Un," Dean mutters, pained, and his heel presses roughly into Sam's shoulder blade. Sam hisses through a sharp line of pain. Dean’s nails scrape Sam's arms. Hurt little noises (hurt  _hot_  little noises that reduce Sam to nothing but his hunger, black and all consuming) fill the air, perfuming it humid with Dean's whimpers.  
   
Sam hitches his shoulder, brings Dean's leg higher, spreads the gait of Dean's thighs. The crook of Dean's knee squeezes his shoulder and the scramble of Dean's nails bite his arms. Little sprouts of pain burst through Sam's body but the wet slide of Dean's hole grows tighter in his tenseness too. The sharp pleasure cancels the sharp pain.  
   
Their bodies slap together, filling the room with filthy wet sounds that go straight to Sam's hazy head. He can feel Dean's hard cock bob against his abdomen, a smear of pre-come slicking his skin, and he makes an almost desperate noise as he scrambles to grip Dean's dick and pump.  
   
Beneath him, Dean shifts violent under the stretch of his body, moving as if he's trying to push Sam's cock from him. Sam tightens his hand, drunk on the feeling of his baby brother's cock twitching hotly against his palm, drags his thumb to circle the drooling head. Dean bucks into his grip with a low, rasping cry.  
   
"Yeah," Sam murmurs mindlessly, stroking Dean off and fucking him deep. His movements are jerky, uncoordinated, but he can feel his orgasm tingling at the base of his dick. "Come on Dean, come for me. Come just for Sammy."  
   
Sam licks his neck. His teeth ache for Dean's skin (muscle, bone - even his blood, fuck, it would taste sweet; Sam could lick it from his teeth, let Dean suck it off his tongue, his cock - ). He won't leave a mark tonight, though, no matter how badly he wants to.  
   
He slides his fingers down to fondle Dean's balls. Dean  _gasps_. Smirking, breathless, Sam glances up, wants to see Dean's slack mouth.  
   
What he finds is Dean panting in pleasure, eyes wide open, trembling in the night as he watches Sam fuck him.  
   
"Dean," Sam gasps, brain fumbling, but his body surges forward. He fucks in as deep as he can, balls landing sharp and hot against Dean's thighs, and Dean's mouth twists. "Fuck, Dean - "  
   
Then Sam's hips roll again, sliding his cock a few inches and delving back in. His dick must catch Dean just right, must slide in good and press in sweet, because Dean closes his eyes and his head lolls to the side.   
   
Dean moans, but it's garbled with something wild and pained. Gripping Sam with his hands, he slurs something (maybe Sam's name, maybe more, maybe please, Sam thinks dizzily) and rocks against Sam's dick. It's gorgeous, feels perfect, and Sam rewards his brother by bringing his hand back to Dean's dripping cock.  
   
"Uh," Dean pants. "F-fu, wha - wha - sh-shit..."  
   
The string of pleasure-pain-curses devolves into a string of desperate, needy noises. Sam is drunk as soon as they fall to his skin.  
   
Then Dean’s eyes flutter opened and he's staring up at Sam with dim, wild confusion. His mouth opens as if he's going to speak, but Sam flicks his wrist and drags his palm along Dean's cock, and Dean's eyes close again, mouth forming an 'o' as he groans.  
   
"That's it, angel," Sam says. There is a frenzy running rampant in his veins and the freedom to take anything he needs from his baby brother is pulsing through the air. "Feels so good. Can you feel it, Dean? Can you feel me?"  
   
He slides as much of his cock as he can bear from Dean's hole then pushes back, quick, savage, and Dean makes a noise like he's choking on Sam's dick, helpless to do anything but bounce on Sam's cock until his ass and throat are bursting with the fat, thick flesh.  
   
"God damn," Sam breathes at the same time Dean manages "Guh, uh - S-S...'am, 'ammy - ".   
   
Sam spills into the condom with a deep noise. His hips keep snapping forward, even though he's just come hard enough to make his body numb. He keeps jerking Dean through the final thrusts, pulling and twisting until Dean comes with a scratching, sobbing moan.  
   
His body sags over Dean's, exhausted. He lets Dean's leg slide off of him, giving him the use of two forearms to hold his crushing weight above his brother's body.  
   
Dean's breath is calming, but it's still quick and light. He's still coming down from his high; he's still awake. Sam waits for movement, for sound, but the only thing Dean does is spiral back into sleep.  
   
Sam huffs a disbelieving breath against Dean's neck. "Fuck," he murmurs to himself, laughing quiet but wild, because fuck - tonight was just a tease, just a slice of how sweet Sam's life is going to be once he has Dean writhing willingly on his cock.  
   
He pulls out to throw the condom off, then swipes another one from his dresser. Arousal is still simmering in his hammer beat heart. Even though his cock isn't quiet ready to slip back inside of Dean's body, every synapse is firing hot to draw him back in.  
   
-  
   
Sam drifts for nearly an hour, shifting between bleary consciousness and alert sleep. When he's finally able to keep his eyes open, he's hard, aching, hungry for Dean's already fucked out hole. He debates eating Dean's gaping, still wet asshole before fucking in again, but his tongue curdles at the thought of latex aftertaste.  
   
(Someday, Sam won't need to hide the evidence of his need and devotion. He'll sink into Dean, cock bare, fuck him raw, fill Dean's hole so full of come that Sam will have to lick it back out before he can fit his dick inside again.)  
   
He thinks about taking Dean on his soft stomach, his side, but he's still raw from the afternoon. He keeps Dean on his back. He tries to get both of Dean's legs around his shoulders but they keep sliding on Sam's sweat slick skin, too tender to stay around Sam on their own.  
   
He fucks Dean the same way, one knee hooked over his back, one hand playing with Dean's cock, his entire focus on Dean's pretty face.  
   
 


	5. Chapter Four Part Two

They’re eating lunch (Dean’s home baked macaroni and lobster, which Sam initially thought sounded gross but is completely addicted to now) when Dean hammers the first crack into Sam’s master plan.  
  
“I’m gonna go to that musical thing tonight,” he says, eyes on his plate as he pushes pasta in a swirl.  
  
Sam nearly chokes on a sweet, tender morsel of lobster.  
  
“Hey,” Dean says, cutting concerned eyes to his brother. “Are you okay? Do you need me to Heimlich you?”  
  
Sam shakes his head, coughing as he reaches for his water. He takes several gulps. “No,” he says shakily. “Just – food went down the wrong way.” He offers a little smile and pounds himself lightly on the chest.  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Sammy, even babies know how to eat without choking themselves.” He grins gently before continuing. “So. The musical – ”  
  
“I thought musicals weren’t your thing,” Sam interrupts, suddenly off kilter, off course.  
  
Shrugging, Dean answers, “They’re not. But I…” He licks his lips, chuckles with no humor. “What am I doing, Sammy?” he says softly. “I can’t remember a few hook ups so I just lock myself in a tower like some fucking maiden in distress?”  
  
Scrambling for purchase, Sam wills his brain to process Dean’s words faster, to produce an answer.  
  
“I thought you…” Sam begins, but he’s unsure of what to say.  
  
He has to tread carefully here, play the big bewildered brother whose desperate to bring his brother from his depression. Encouraging him not to engage with the outside world isn’t the line written for that part. Cultivating the doubts Dean has about others will only highlight how little Sam has done himself to find the root of Dean’s problem.  
  
“Yeah?” Dean asks.  
  
"I don't know," Sam says. "I just - I guess I'm not really sure what's been..." He shakes his head. "Look, Dean, I know you've felt like there's been something wrong. I've been trying to help you but I don't really know how. I don't really know what's going on. I don't - I don't really know what you need."  
  
Which is a lie, because Sam knows exactly what Dean needs. Dean needs Sam (Sam's love, protection, devotion; Sam's touch lulling him to sleep; Sam's cock filling him up, moving in him, bringing them both to the edge of everything). Sam is all Dean needs. (They are all each other need. They've always been out of step to the beat that spins the world and they've always only had one another. Sam knows it's how they're meant to be.)  
  
Dean sighs. He lets his fork fall to his plate and slumps against the chair. "I know," he says. "I just - I freaked out, y'know, not being able to remember."  
  
"Maybe we should...I don't know, get you checked out or something," Sam suggests, only because he knows Dean will never, ever agree.  
  
"I'm not crazy," Dean says, quick and defensive. "I don't need some - "  
  
"I don't mean a shrink, man. I mean like a doctor. What if you really have something wrong with you?"  
  
With a relieved breath, Dean shakes his head again. "No. You know I hate hospitals."  
  
"No one likes hospitals, Dean. But what if you're...sick or something? Hurt?" Sam offers his most earnest, pleading eyes. It's the begging little brother face Dean never mastered because he was too busy giving in to Sam's. "You're my baby brother. I don't want anything to happen to you. I mean what would I do if, if something..."  
  
He trails off, but his genuine vulnerability seeps through his eyes. He won't lose Dean to this, he knows, but even the idea of it makes his heart hurt.   
  
"I've talked to someone," Dean admits then, voice soft. Sam blinks in surprise. "Not like - okay, someone online. But it was on Web MD. And I've read, like, a fuckton of articles. I don't think I'm...sick, or hurt, or anything. So you don't have to worry."  
  
"You talked to someone?"  
  
Dean licks his lips again. (Sam wonders if he can taste Sam's kisses, the sounds he made, still lingering on his tongue.)  
  
"It was just online. But she said - well, she didn't think it was a medical issue. Psychological, maybe, or..." Dean trails off, then squares his jaw. "And I think she's right. The last times I've fucked someone must have been so traumatic that I blocked them. I just freaked myself out."  
  
"So you don't remember the sex you've been having because it's been...bad?"  
  
"Traumatic," Dean corrects. "And I've blocked it. It happens all the time with people who've been molested and stuff."  
  
Careful to construct an air of outrage, Sam hisses, "You think someone's been molesting you?"  
  
"No! Jesus, Sammy, heel. I just think...it's been bad. Maybe they hadn't showered, or something, I don't know. The point is hiding in the house hasn't made anything better."  
  
"What do you mean, hasn't made anything better?" Sam asks, feigning confusion. It's startlingly easy to pretend. "Are you still - are there still things you can't remember? I thought the last time was when Dad left."  
  
"It doesn't matter," Dean shrugs.   
  
Real anger thunders in Sam's chest. "Of course it fucking matters."   
  
"Sammy," Dean sighs. "It's just this block I have, or something. It's all up here." He taps his forehead with his forefinger. "All the aches in weird places, all the nagging sensations I have that I missed something - "  
  
"What about your bruises? Are all those up here too?" Sam demands, mimicking Dean's movements.   
  
Dean glares. "I probably gave them to myself in my sleep. Nightmares or night terrors or something. I haven't gotten any since you've been..." Tucking me in, sleeping with me through the night, he doesn't say. Instead he drops his gaze to his plate. "Why are you being such a giant dick about this all of a sudden?"  
  
"Because you've been like a zombie for the past few weeks!"  
  
His voice rises and darkens without his conscious direction. His breath moves ragged and without direction through his limbs. His rage shakes.  
  
“How can you just – ” he grits, intending to ask how the fuck Dean can ignore the evidence of his body and the coldness creeping through his gut for a little group of teenagers, for Cas, even though Sam has laid the arrows pointing to their feet himself.  
  
Dean shoots words, sharp, between his own, sundering his questions and anger. “What other – ” his little brother begins, jaw clenched, eyes trembling under the hot weight of wet, pulsing desperation. “What the fuck else am I supposed to think? What else am – what else can I do?”  
  
“Dean – ”  
  
“I can’t do this anymore, Sammy,” he says lowly. “I’m losing my damn mind. I have to – just, just for now, I have to – I have to believe…” He trails off, gaze closing, mouth slacking. “Just come with me tonight, okay?”  
  
For several heavy moments, Sam can’t answer. He doesn’t understand his baby brother’s sudden insistence that everything is fine, perfectly fine, as if he hasn’t been hiding himself from a shadowed world of purple bruises and aches and nights he can’t remember, as if he hasn’t been breathing the air of sorrow and doubt, as if he’s never shuddered under the possibility that it was a friend, a classmate, who had battered his brain and body.  
  
He releases a deep, bitter breath. Dean’s heart beats in tender blood and forgiveness. Sam can’t recall the last time he severed the cords tying him to anyone, regardless of how far they let Dean down.  
  
“Okay,” Sam agrees with a shrug, movement nonchalant and voice heavy. “Fine.”  
  
-  
  
Throughout the afternoon, Sam simmers in his frustration, until, finally, his brain boils over his anger and he realizes tonight is just another opportunity to prove that Sam’s is the only heart Dean will ever be able to truly know and trust.  
  
Dean is desperate to crawl back to his friends, his normalcy, and scrape the dark whirlwind confusion and pain from the past weeks from his belly along the creep. Dean wants to believe his friends could never hurt him. Dean wants to prove to himself that in reality, he’s safe, and the shadows flicker only in his head. Dean believes it’s better to imagine assault and deception and manipulation, better to suffer the phantom aches psychologically, than to be a victim.  
  
Sam pockets a few remaining pills. Briefly he wonders if he should slip Dean a hit before the musical, purely as a courtesy to save his little brother from the memory. He decides to wait.  
  
In the end, he knows everything will be better if he’s patient.  
  
-  
  
As it turns out, Dean’s presence at the performance is not the magical ingredient to its success.  
  
The majority of the musical is teenagers shuffling across the stage, missing cues and marks and lines. Meg, surprisingly, has the voice of an angel. Charlie sings sweet. They are the only players who can carry a note without making the audience cringe.  
  
At Garth’s character’s second appearance, he attempts to spin and collides with curtain, wrapping himself in thick fabric in a cartoonish flail that has Dean gripping Sam’s arm with his fingers, tugging Sam so Dean can bury his red face and laughter and embarrassment against Sam’s skin.  
  
Sam laughs, the sight ridiculous, the soft tuft of Dean’s hair tickling his arm, the shake of Dean’s shoulders as he tries not to laugh again hitting some light in Sam’s chest. He can’t remember the last time he laughed so purely.  
  
When Dean pulls his face from Sam’s arm, Sam grins at him, genuine and joyful. Dean smiles back, full force.  
  
Then Dean leans in, mouth close to Sam’s ear, and Sam swallows hard. “Told you this thing’d get a laugh outta you,” he whispers, breath cinnamon hot against Sam’s ear. Sam nearly groans as Dean’s sweetness brushes against him.  
  
Dean bumps his forehead against Sam’s jaw, playful, and Sam’s heart nearly seizes like a stone in his chest. He looks to his little brother to find a flicker of confusion, a flush of heat, play over his features, as if the movement wasn’t planned or dignified. Sam bites his lip, because yes – hell yes.  
  
The brushes of his hands and mouth at night, the warmth he’s offered Dean in the light of the sun, the love he’s drenched Dean in when his angel’s eyes are closed and body is shaking, have all culminated in this moment. Dean at his side, easy and free with affection, and it’s all for him.  
  
Shifting, he makes a show of stretching his arms, lengthening his legs under the seat, before bringing one arm around Dean’s chair. His brother’s gaze dances across the stage. Feeling bold, he slides his arm until his fingertips can rest on the nape of Dean’s neck.  
  
Dean does glance at him then, but it’s only a glance, a flicker of a smile (soft, teasing Sam’s insides). Sam licks his lips and rubs his thumb against the baby soft, baby light hair on the nape of Dean’s neck, slides it down and traces the top knob of Dean’s spine.  
  
Dean doesn’t ask him to stop, doesn’t cut his gaze to Sam and roll his eyes, doesn’t shrug Sam’s touch off as if it’s a joke or an annoyance. Dean just watches the disaster fall apart on stage, just lets Sam touch him.  
  
(Later, when Meg asks Sam what he thought of their performance, he says it was one of the best times he’s ever had in a theater. Dean smiles at him and Sam feels a phantom wave of body heat lick his thumb. He smiles back.)  
  
-  
  
Dean hadn’t wanted to attend the after party (“I’m tired guys, really…I’m not up for a party…I won’t even be any fun, y’all go ahead, I’ll text you in the morning…”) but he had crumbled under the weight of pleading words and shining eyes.  
  
Puppy gazes and pitiful whines and the shrill stretch of his name always shattered Dean’s defenses. Sam knew that well; he had invented the strategy of defeat.  
  
As they arrive to the Milton’s (which Sam thinks is a fitting setting for the next rip he’s going to tear between Dean and the hands that pull him from Sam’s arms), Dean says he only wants to stay for an hour, tops. Sam nods easily in agreement.  
  
Before they walk through the front door, Dean reaches for Sam’s wrist.  
  
Sam halts as long, warm fingers curl around him. He half-turns, peers into Dean’s face, finding apprehension and hope gleaming nearly translucent in the moonlight.  
  
“Can you,” Dean begins, licking his lips. Sam’s heart and cock pound. “Just keep me outta trouble, okay?”  
  
Throat dry, Sam nods. His stomach is empty of knots or fears, pumping confident and warm with rolling lust, and he hesitates only a moment before twisting his wrist and threading his fingers with Dean’s. He offers a reassuring squeeze.  
  
Dean swallows, kitten soft, and squeezes back before sliding his hand away.  
  
Sam can’t help but grin as he follows Dean inside. Tonight’s match of this shadow game is already his.  
  
-  
  
Much to Sam’s amusement, Cas has glued himself to the bar in the kitchen, mixing and re-filling and shuffling drinks throughout the party.  
  
“You takin’ tips?” Sam asks with a grin when he and Dean move to the bar. He doesn’t bother to hide his smug satisfaction.  
  
“Attending to refreshments is an important duty of a good host,” Cas replies, no smile in his eyes and no humor in his lips.  
  
Sam nods, smile still satisfied and superior.  
  
“I’ll take a Jack and Coke, then.”  
  
“Dr. Pepper’s cool for me.”  
  
Cas blinks, wide eyes clear as the blue rivers they reflect, and tilts his head. “Oh. I’m – I apologize, Dean, I had assumed you would be drinking whiskey tonight as well.”  
  
A red solo cup is already in Cas’s hand. Sam has the urge to laugh in his bewildered face, because he’s such a helpful, silly little patsy and he doesn’t even realize it. It’s the second time Dean will think the disappearance of his memories has been a result of Cas playing bartender.  
  
“No,” Dean says quickly after several moments beat past. “No, I’ll – that’s fine.”  
  
“Dean,” Sam says unsurely.  
  
Dean cuts a soft grin. “No point in only throwing one leg over the horse when you’re trying to learn to ride again,” he says, all shaking bravado, and takes the drink with a gentle thanks.  
  
“Is that...” Cas begins, head tilted again. “Is that a…common saying? I haven’t heard it before.”  
  
“Nah, I just have a way with words, y’know, same as I do with the ladies.”  
  
As if the word is the secret of the day, Ash bursts through the double French doors, mullet flying behind him, and slides across the tiled floor. He’s panting, face flushed. When he sees Dean, he rushes to him, nearly jolting Sam out of the way as he grips Dean’s biceps.  
  
“Dude,” Dean says, eyeing him with amused confusion. He looks to Sam with a smile. “Where’s the fire?”  
  
“Pool house,” Ash gasps.  
  
Cas’s eyes widen, electrified. “The pool house is on fire?” he asks in distress.  
  
Ash shakes his head. “No, it’s – it’s Charlie,” Ash pants, chest heaving. “She’s burning, man. Crashing…and burning.”  
  
Confusion raises Sam’s brow, but Dean’s face dances with emotion and realization. “Kelly,” he says and Ash nods quickly. “Okay. Ash, you did the right thing coming to find me. Sammy, watch my drink. Cas…you just, keep doing you. I have a fire to put out.” Dean squints his eyes. “Well, to start.” He wriggles his eyebrows. “And then hopefully watch.”  
  
“I don’t understand,” Cas says, frowning.  
  
Dean and Ash are already moving to the door. Glancing over his shoulder, Dean calls, “I have to help Charlie land this chick; I’m her only hope!”  
  
The deep, somber expression of Cas’s face settles even further into his features, sorrowed and stoned, and Sam isn’t even angry that Dean was ripped from his hands. The most perfect opportunity has fallen in his lap. He plans to exploit it to his fullest advantage.  
  
“So,” Sam says, gaining Cas’s attention. He smiles, dimples digging giddily into his cheeks, and slides one elbow on the counter. “You guys were really great tonight.”  
  
Cas glares, but it only fuels Sam’s amusement.  
  
“How ‘bout that Jack and Coke?” he asks.  
  
Jaw ticking, Cas watches Sam in silent but obvious judgment. Eventually, he drops his gaze. “We have run out of Coke. I will have to check the basement to see if there is anymore.”  
  
“I’ll man your post while you’re gone,” Sam says solemnly.  
  
He claps Cas on the shoulder. Cas shrugs his hand off. Somehow, Sam manages not to laugh.  
  
-  
  
The roofie has already sizzled and fizzled in Dean’s drink by the time Ash and his little brother move back into the party.  
  
“I am the best wingman,” Dean proclaims with a grin when he sees Sam and Cas behind the counter. “Like, the actual best in the history of the world. I think I could even get this guy laid!” he laughs, knocking Ash on the shoulder.  
  
“Hey, chicks dig the mullet. He’s the one you need to help get laid,” Ash says indignantly, nodding towards Cas.  
  
Cas’s gaze falls to Dean for a long moment (a too long, too heavy moment, and Sam’s earlier amusement morphs quick and ugly) before he looks into the dark sloshing sea of his drink.  
  
“Here’s your drink, man.”  
  
Dean smiles as he accepts his whiskey, lips still stretched as they glide over the white rim of the cup. Sam doesn’t hide the way he watches Dean throat work to swallow the sweet burn.  
  
“Seriously though,” Ash continues. “Meg has been pretty blatantly eye fucking him the entire summer, and he – ”  
  
“She has not – ” Cas begins to deny.  
  
Ash narrows his eyes. “Cas. Dude. I’m surprised you’re not pregnant from all the eye fuckings she’s been giving you.”  
  
Dean nearly chokes on his drink at that. He puts the cup down, laughter trembling in his throat, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand (Sam wants to lick the spit and candy liquor from Dean’s skin). Beauty swollen lips part on a breath, but before Dean speaks, his eyes widen and he leans forward against the counter, craning his neck.  
  
“Is that Jess?” he asks.  
  
Sam glances behind him to see waves of blonde hair and a flash of Jess’s face.  
  
He swallows.  
  
Dean’s gleaming, razor blunt teeth slide over his bottom lip.  
  
“Is everything alright?” Cas asks him softly.  
  
“Huh?” Dean asks, distracted, before cutting his gaze to Cas. “Oh, yeah, it’s all cool. I just uh – I actually had something I wanted to ask her.” He glances at Sam. “About that night – y’know, the night she and her friends came over.”  
  
Barb wire panic coils tight against Sam’s body and squeezes. Sam doesn’t know how much progress will dissipate soft as dust when his baby brother realizes Jessica’s truth doesn’t match Sam’s lie, but he does know he can’t risk the damage. It could be an atom bomb, blowing him back to the starting line of this game. It could wipe him from the board completely.  
  
Unsure of how to stall, Sam almost reaches for Dean’s wrist as he mumbles an “excuse me” and shifts, beeline route to Jess obvious in his eyes.  
  
Almost, but doesn’t – because Cas does it for him.  
  
“Actually, Dean,” he says, somber and gravel thick. “I was hoping I could discuss something you.”  
  
“Can it wait?” Dean asks. His impatience is obvious.  
  
Cas blinks, little flecks of hurt sapphire in his ice eyes, but he nods. “Of course. Sorry, I just.” He shakes his head. “I apologize if I was rude. Of course, have your – ”  
  
“No, it’s – ” Dean licks his lips. He glances past the living room entry again before taking another gulp of his drink. “It’ll only take a minute, right?”  
  
Cas looks as if he’s actually about to tell Dean that no, their conversation is quite serious and may take a strenuous matter of time to discuss. Sam can see the words pouring from Cas’s cracking lips, the cracking message cracking Sam’s plans to pieces. But Cas only nods.  
  
“Okay.” Dean nods to him before turn to face Sam fully. “Make sure she doesn’t leave, alright Sammy?”  
  
“Yeah, sure. No problem, buddy.”  
  
-  
  
It is longer than a minute.  
  
Sam glances at the smooth carved, cherry wood clock on the wall, watching as two, three, five, seven minutes flow through his fingertips. He pays half-attention to Jess as she tells him about the Zoology course she took last semester, her lab horror stories, and focuses the other half of his synapses on controlling the real fire Dean is about to set.  
  
“So what have you been up to? I haven’t seen you out and about lately.”  
  
She’s smiling when Sam looks from the staircase leading to Cas’s room to her face. Her lips are grapefruit pink, a deep, wet flush on a plush mouth. Her skin shines golden under the light, pleasant contrast between flesh and curled, shining blonde hair. Dean wants Sam to marry her so he can stay over and catch glimpses of her walking through the house in a towel.  
  
She’s sweet, lovely, a fresh, bright ray in Sam’s foggy mornings, but she isn’t Dean. She never could be.  
  
(There was a time Sam ached for longing cleansed of his dark tastes; he would have bled to dream of Jessica, Madison, any flesh that wasn’t flushed with his own blood. Those girls, beautiful and shining as they were, could never love Sam the way Dean loved him, though, so complete and unconditional. Dean has wept and fought and suffered taunts, black eyes, their father’s judgment, for him. He thinks Dean would probably even die for him. No stranger will ever be able to love him like that.)  
  
“Uh,” Sam answers, licking his lips. He forces a smile, can feel the chemical taste of the fake gesture, as she takes a sip of her screwdriver. “Yeah. I haven’t really been out and about, lately. Dean’s been sorta…” He shrugs his shoulders, grinding his bones and flesh and facial twitches into the concerned older brother. “I don’t know. He’s…he’s having a really rough time.”  
  
He doesn’t have a solid game plan and his vision is warm with whiskey, heat easing his muscles but stinging his tongue. Playing wounded usually works for him, though; he peers earnest and sorrowed through his fringe, then drops his gaze to the floor, then cracks his voice. He’s committing to the approach, hoping a clear path to the next level will present himself, when Jessica’s mouth falls.  
  
“Woah.”  
  
Sam glances behind him to see his angel, bristling in lighting bright bursts, rushing down the stairs two steps at a time. His face is twisted in a snarl, nose and lips and cheeks frantic, ugly slashes, though the expression isn’t ugly at all. It’s a grotesque coil of features but it’s beautiful, fiercely beautiful. Sam has difficulty catching his breath. His eyes catch Dean’s hand, slip-sliding down the banister with such ferocity his palm must burn, and dig into the bright flecks of blood on his knuckles.  
  
Sam licks his lips. Exquisite – fuck, his angel glows exquisitely in his wrath.  
  
It takes Sam a moment to see, hear, Cas trailing behind Dean. Blood stains the curve of his nose, the cusp of his upper lip.  
  
“Dean,” he’s calling, nasal high and blood thick. “Dean, please – ”  
  
Gasps and ‘holy shit!’s are echoing around them. Sam thinks the music may have even stopped as Dean marches towards him.  
  
Dean reaches him in slow motion. As if moving through water, Dean’s fingers curl harsh around his wrist, rough, burning. Sam’s chest tightens; he thinks he may crumble inward.  
  
“We’re leaving,” Dean hisses.  
  
Sam doesn’t argue.

-

The moon is bright enough that Sam can cut of the headlines and still see stalks of golden wheat. There are at least twelve trees among the clusters dusting the field with their initials carved in crudely. Memories still breathe here, Sam and Dean chasing each other, falling together, laughing.  
  
After they had slid into the car, Dean had asked Sam to take him somewhere – anywhere – but home. Sam had known just where to bring him.  
  
Dean is lying against the hood, watching the night sky, beating black as the Impala’s blood. His hands are threaded behind his head. He wiped the blood lingering on his knuckles against his jeans, though, so Sam can still watch the flecks dry into crimson on Dean’s thigh.  
  
“So…you wanna tell me what all that was about?” Sam asks. His hip is cocked against the car and he’s twisted so his chest is facing the long, graceful line of Dean’s body.  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Well. Okay then.”  
  
Dean exhales a heavy breath himself as Sam sags against the Impala.  
  
“I don’t need to talk about it.”  
  
“Maybe you do.”  
  
“Dammit, Sammy,” Dean huffs, sitting up, folding his knees and crossing his arms stiffly around them. He looks so young, Sam’s heart splinters. “He was just – he was talking shit about shit he doesn’t know shit about, alright? So I hit him in the face.”  
  
Unable to stop, Sam laughs. It’s tired and half-hearted but there is a melodic note of genuine amusement he can’t hide. Dean glances, glares, at him.  
  
“I told him about my theory. About not remembering.”  
  
“The psychological trauma theory?” Dean nods. “And what did he say to that?”  
  
Dean shrugs, resting his chin on his knees. “He said I was being a dumbass.”  
  
Shock jumps through him. “Really? Like, that’s the actually word he used?” Again, Dean nods. “Huh.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says softly. A dry laugh tumbles, scratchy, disbelieving, and Dean slides so his cheek is pressed to his hands and his eyes are locked with Sam’s own gaze. “Then he told me his own theory. It was bullshit.”  
  
Sam nods, “Ah. That explains punching him in the nose.”  
  
His brother doesn’t say anything, just turns, eyes roaming the field with a restless, frayed edge.  
  
“Cas’s theory,” he begins, licking his lips. He needs his next words to roll slick and smooth from them. “Did it have anything to do with me?”  
  
Dean is quiet and still. He is a lovely picture and Sam’s eyes roam the highlighted planes of his face, the midnight sheen of his skin. After several moments pass, Sam thinks Dean isn’t going to answer.  
  
Then Dean whispers, “Yes.” It is so low and wet, a damp dark forest drenched in heat, Sam barely hears him.  
  
A tremble is rolling down Dean’s arm. Sam reaches out, fingertips dry and wrecked without the silk of Dean underneath them, but he halts his movement when Dean speaks again.  
  
“He thinks you – ” Dean chokes on the words. He shakes his head, breathes deeply, attempting to swallow against smoke clear rage and sorrow, then turns his head and captures Sam’s eyes with a plea. “I don’t understand, but he thinks you would – you have something to do with whatever’s been going on. He said – ”  
  
Biting his lip, he draws Sam deeper, a physical pull that has Sam’s palm sliding just behind Dean’s back, leaning close to give Dean comfort, to smell his cologne. “He said ‘there is a great darkness in you’.” Dean’s voice drops and his body steadies, a cold mimic of Cas’s somber speech. “Whatever the fuck that means.”  
  
Sam huffs, hoping his smile can’t be heard in the heavy breath. As much as he doesn’t want to credit the ice chipped eyes that follow his angel’s footsteps, Cas is right: there is darkness in Sam, squirming just under the surface, rooted in his deepest, most secret places, and it is great. It is deep and consuming and great.  
  
He doesn’t allow himself to be swept into the black wind thoughts. Dean’s spine is curved with feline grace, with whelp pain, and he wishes he could plaster himself to it, mold himself to fit perfectly with his brother’s body.  
  
Unthinking, his fingertips skitter over Dean’s flutter boned shoulder, over the sharp spikes of his spine. Dean presses his cheek against his knees and lets Sam touch him.  
  
“I think it’s because he doesn’t have a family,” Dean says, voice oddly soft, a fey song drawing Sam to another world. “I mean Anna and Balt, they’re not his blood, you know. I just – I don’t think he understands what it means to only have one person you can really depend on.”  
  
The blood they share is rushing waterfall fast and furious in Sam’s ears. The dark symphony of nocturnal insects, playing just for Sam and Dean, is drowned by his brother’s words, overtaken by the flutter of his brother’s lashes as Dean peers at him.  
  
“He doesn’t really understand what it means to be brothers,” Dean breathes, as if he’s frightened his voice will shake the trance he’s lain.  
  
Sam nods, swallows, as he flattens his fingertips against Dean’s back, lays his palm flat as well, soaking in the blistering heat radiating from skin through cotton.  
  
“No,” Sam agrees. He sounds distant, strange, even to himself. He presses himself closer, thighs sinking against the Impala, side brushing his brother’s until he can feel Dean’s ribs expanding and contracting as he breathes. “Dean,” he whispers, aching.  
  
Dean closes his eyes.   
  
"I know - " Dean says. "I know I shouldn't have hit him. I didn't - I didn't mean to." His dew fresh jaw ticks, his clean cut fist clenches, and he releases a sharp breath. "I just couldn't stand the way he was talking about you. He doesn't know anything about us. None of them do. Fuckin' - not fuckin' one of them understand what you've done for me, and I hate it. I hate - I h-hate them - "  
  
Dean's voice shakes to dust and cinder, then, completely falls apart. Dean completely falls apart, shoulder shaking underneath Sam's hand, trembling as cool kissed tears well in Dean's eyes.   
  
"Hey, hey," Sam tries to soothe, tries to catch Dean's breaking pieces in his huge hands.   
  
Watching Dean slices his him in two jagged, jerking pieces, and he's scrambling to shove his guts in his body and keep his tongue from Dean's tears as his little brother cries.  
  
(He knows what people say about him, knows what they say to Dean about him, knows how the words make little, stinging cuts on Dean’s star bright skin. But Dean crying for him, forhim, is as beautiful as it is heartbreaking, as comforting as it is horrifying.)   
  
Sam's fingers are sliding over Dean's shoulders when broken angel eyes shatter towards him. There is a siren sheen of wetness at the corner of Dean's mouth, salty tear, sweet spit, watermelon crush skin, and it wouldn't even take a breath for Sam to taste it: lick it clean, suck it into his mouth, capture it with his lips.   
  
“It's okay, buddy, ” Sam assures. He licks his own lips, wets them slick so his words will tumble right off, smooth and slippery to slide over Dean’s skin, drench it. “But you can't - you just can't listen to the stuff people say.”   
  
"I know," Dean whispers miserably, dropping his gaze.   
  
"But you're right." Broken emeralds snap back to him. Sam holds his gaze, traps it the packed earth of his own eyes. "They don't know us. They have no idea - nothing about me, or you. About what we mean to each other. They don't - "   
  
He pauses, unsure of his next words. He doesn't know what he's playing at here, if he's playing at all. His body feels inside out, like his lungs are fluttering outside of his body and his heart is exposed to the razor sharp desolation in Dean's eyes.   
  
A summer warm breeze brushes his cheek. It rustles through the wheat field, the black spade shapes of tree leaves. This dark nature seems to pull Sam from the ground, from the earth itself, into some heated, hidden piece of the atmosphere. Breathing in the void of space and time and reality, Sam finds a breakneck burst of insanity.  
  
His voice shakes, wet, when he speaks. "I don't think anyone knows what you mean to me," he whispers. "Not even you."  
  
“Sammy," his angel says, sounding as helpless as he feels. "Come on - "  
  
"You're - " Sam chokes.   
  
Heat bites his eyes. He ignores the salt sting rubbing his pupils raw, ignores the breaking of his heart. His hand is trembling when he brings it to Dean's face. He cups Dean's jaw with his warm palm (it clenches beneath his touch but angel eyes flutter closed), the angle of it fitting so smooth and perfect in his hand, as if they're pieces sliding together. His thumb sweeps over Dean's cheek. The skin is still damp and hot from tears. Sam shudders; Dean shudders, too, but he allows his body to sag, allows himself to press his cheek into Sam's touch. Disbelieving, Sam laughs, a desperate sound, and swallows his own shiver.   
  
"You're my entire world," he whispers.  
  
Dean sucks in a breath and opens his eyes. He remains soft against Sam's hand, though, and Sam's body nearly tears itself apart in a chaotic, hopeful frenzy.   
  
"You're - you're everything," Sam adds, and he's nearly crying now, burning little needle pricks close to spilling past his lids. "You're everything to me. The only thing - the only person that matters, that I - I love - "  
  
Sam doesn't even realize he's orbiting closer to his bright baby, his sun, moving light as heavy words fall and free him, until Dean tilts his head.   
  
Then his Dean, his little brother, his baby, his angel, brushes their mouths together.   
  
Sam makes a sound like a wild, frightened animal, breath scrambling from its body as bones break and muscles tear. It sinks into the softness of Dean's lips.   
  
For several moments their mouths remain, soft like wings, just fluttering and pumping with blood against each other. Sam's brain is sizzling in his head, burning up, dying. Every synapse is too busy exploding at the silk sensation of Dean's lovely, devastating mouth, warm as candle wax against his own mouth, to process what's happening.   
  
When he finally gets it (Dean is kissing him, Dean is kissing him, Dean is kissing him, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh god, oh please), he shatters.   
  
The hand he has on Dean's jaw tightens, his thumb sinking into Dean's soft flesh, and his other hand flies to Dean's throat, fingers on his neck, thumb on his collar, and his body collapses as far against the Impala as he can, destroying any space that dares get between them.   
  
Dean makes a noise, the sound muffled between their mouths (their lips, fuck, their lips, Dean's lips). Sam doesn't know what it means but he can't stop to decipher it. He moves his mouth against his little brother's, absolutely begging (please Dean, please baby, please, please) for more, and Heaven help them both, Dean doesn't deny him.   
  
Suddenly it's both of their lips, slick with sweat and tears, moving hungry against each other, slip sliding like hot summer rain and bloody knuckles. It's too hot - Sam is burning, swears he can feel pieces of his flesh crumbling to ashes - and it's too heavy, dense and pressing Sam's skull into his spine, and it's too sweet, rotting Sam's teeth, and it's too much.   
  
It's more than Sam has been aching and dragging himself through this dark, glass spiked path for. It's more than has ever crackled on the nights Sam has pressed Dean to the bed and licked his mouth and ass and cock open, sloppy, sore. It's more, it's too much, Sam wasn't built to withstand the heat flooding his belly or the wave of wantneednownownow stiffening his dick so quickly it's painful.   
  
This is pain, Sam thinks, hungry noise spilling from him to lap at Dean's skin. This is pleasure.   
  
This is everything.   
  
Dean must feel it, too (he must feel everything, now, Sam's unconditional love, Sam's fathomless need, Sam's gaping, greedy desire). He whimpers, hurt little sound that makes Sam's hips and cock jerk, and his hands scrambles against Sam's body. They slide over his forearms, find the fabric at his chest, and clutch, hard and desperate and shaking.   
  
Dean's tongue, kitten soft, petal pink, snake slithering, slides against Sam's bottom lip. It's a tentative movement, so young. Sam had to tangle the tip of his own tongue with Dean's, spit red little devils dancing outside of their mouths, until the overwhelming need to taste Dean inside breaks over Sam's skin. He plunges, tongue sliding rough and hot over his baby brother's, and his angel groans for him, the most beautiful sounds he's ever heard. Dean keeps clutching him tight. His little blunt fingernails are digging past the balls of fabric, scraping Sam's skin. It hurts. Sam doesn't care.   
  
He slips the hand on Dean's jaw, threading his fingers through Dean's soft hair, until his palm is cupping Dean's skull. Sam pushes Dean forward with his hand, leans in with his own body, crushing their mouths so tightly against each other their teeth clack. The pain reverberates through Sam's head, but he just keeps kissing, licking, sucking the marrow from Dean's bones through his tongue.   
  
He feels dizzy, overwhelmed.   
  
He doesn't know if he should grip Dean by the thighs, wrap gorgeous legs around his waist, slip right into that bowed invitation. He doesn't know if they should stay just the way they are, the Impala hot under Dean's thighs, or if he should swing Dean up, press him and rub off against him, fuck him, against the huge oak carrying their initials. That way might tear Dean's clothes, scrape his back bloody and bruised (Sam could lick the sticky iron sweet away, kiss the mottle purple bruises soft).   
  
Maybe he should just press Dean's pretty little frame onto the hood, press their stiff cocks together, tear Dean's pants to his knees and wrap Dean's ankles around his neck, fuck him deep into the midnight sky of their second home.   
  
He could slide Dean into the backseat, suck his cock, choke Dean on his own. He could lay Dean gentle on the grass, lick every inch of him, make him whimper and beg for more, for anything - Sam's mouth, Sam's fingers, Sam's fat, aching dick.   
  
God, he could - he wants to -  
  
"Fuck," Dean gasps as he pulls away, sudden, destroying the frenzy that had settled so quickly upon them.   
  
Sam moves to capture his angel's mouth again, but Dean twists his head. Sam's mouth slides against his cheek.   
  
Dean is panting, shaking his head, pushing the hands that had been clinging to Sam like a lifeline against Sam's chest. Sam's own grip doesn't falter, doesn't ease. Instead he curls one hand around Dean's biceps, digs his fingers into Dean's golden hair.   
  
"Stop," Dean breathes, Dean moans, as Sam licks the phantom echo of despair form his cheek. Sam's mouth slides down, covering the point of his jaw, finding the sweetest spot of his throat. Dean's pulse flutters against his skin. "Stop, st - stop, Sam, we gotta - gotta stop - "  
  
"We don't," Sam mouths desperately against his skin. They don't (Sam won't, he's waited so fucking long and he can't - ). No one is going to stop them, see them, know how deeply their love runs.   
  
Dean's fingers curl in his hair (oh fuck he's wanted to feel that, Dean's graceful fingers sliding through his hair, pulling Sam down deeper on his cock, pushing Sam farther into his ass, angling him sharp for sloppy kisses) but they yank, first soft then hard, trying to pull Sam away. Sam makes a pitiful noise as little sparks of pain spurt through his head.   
  
"Dean, please - " he begs as he’s tugged away, but Dean is already sliding from his arms and the Impala’s hood, pouring like sand through Sam’s fingers.  
  
“Shit, fuck, fucking shit.”  
  
His brother is twisting in mad circles. The curses fall like salt around him. He drags one hand over his face, clenches his other hand in a fist.  
  
Sam surges toward him, too high, too amped, from Dean’s tongue in his mouth, furnace hot and alive and wetly wanton, to remain still or safe. The movement spooks Dean who squeaks ‘dude’ like Sam is a roommate who walked in on him the shower. Dean dances away from his outstretched hand.  
  
“We should not – ” Dean breathes. His lips are swollen from Sam’s heavy tonguing, bursting with sweet juice and tangy blood, red as a poison apple that Sam has no qualms about swallowing. “I should not have done that. Shit, I should not have done that – ”  
  
And Sam nearly chokes on his own desperation-despair. “Why?” he rasps. He remains rooted to the cracked ground, but he’s curling his voice around Dean’s shaking frame the way he wants to wrap himself around his brother.  
  
Dean pauses mid-freak to stare at him incredulously. His eyes stretch wide and evergreen as a forest.  
  
“Seriously?” he hisses. “Are you – seriously? Why? Do I need to make a fuckin’ list of reasons?” Sam watches, silent, splintering. “Jesus, Sam. We’re – we’re both guys, for one, and I’m not – I know it’s not wrong but I’m not, okay, even if I did have that Dr. Sexy dream once... And you! I’ve never seen you with a guy – ”  
  
“I’ve been with guys before,” Sam says harsher than he means. (Dean’s never watching that fucking show again.)  
  
Dean’s mouth, still messy from their kiss, widens. The dark gap between his lips is a cruel tease. Not a minute ago, Sam’s tongue was there; Dean was sucking his tongue there, whimpering around it. Now it seems a million miles from his lips.  
  
“W-well, I haven’t,” Dean responds. His face is pinched. “Also, I’m too young for you. I’m – I’m a minor, for Christ’s sake! Not to mention – ” He breathes deeply, prepares himself for his own hit. “We’re brothers, Sammy. I mean – that’s – what I just did, it’s illegal. It’s illegal everywhere. It’s even illegal in England.”  
  
Sam stutters. “What, how does – what? What does England have to do with – ”  
  
“They can say cunt on TV there!” Dean screeches, wrecked. His face is flushed the same blood deep as the lips Sam needs to swallow back up. “They can say cunt, and twat, and fag – ”  
  
“Those are cigarettes there, Dean – ”  
  
Dean waves his hands. “Whatever! They can do whatever the hell they want but they still can’t – can’t kiss their brother.” His voice dwindles, defeated, misery drenched, on the last words. “They can’t do that, because even they think it’s wrong.”  
  
Body straight and heavy as cement, Sam spreads his shoulders, widens his stance, standing as if he’s prepared for the Persian army to rush him head first.  
  
“It’s not,” he insists firmly.  
  
“It is – ”  
  
“Not,” Sam bites. It stings his own mouth. “Not between us, it’s not. You said it yourself, Dean. We’re all each other have.”  
  
This time when Sam approaches him, Dean doesn’t skitter away. He allows Sam to brush a tentative hand over his cheekbone. His eyes close at the touch.  
  
“Dean,” Sam breathes, enchanted by the moonlight and Dean’s willingness, Dean’s want (oh god Dean wants him too) still slithering over his lips. His thumb traces the plump, teasing curve of Dean’s bottom lip. “We’re different. We always have been.”  
  
“We’re fucked up,” Dean whispers against his fingertip.  
  
Sam nearly groans; he wants to sink his thumb inside, slide the pad over the back of Dean’s tongue, flood him with Sam’s taste until he’s breathing it.  
  
“This doesn’t have to be,” he says softly, brushing Dean’s soft mouth with the barest hint of his nail. “It doesn’t. Things could be – would be so much better if we – ”  
  
“Better? You think things would be better if we - ?” He gulps, gesturing between them to finish his sentence.  
  
“I know they would.”  
  
Dean shakes his head, mouth brushing Sam’s thumb. Sam resists the urge to just shove inside of Dean’s dripping, drooling heat (shove in his thumb, fingers, tongue, cock). His thoughts are still fever dream hot and ethereal, but his head is clearing, the thinnest slice of sunlight beaming, allowing rationality to trickle through.  
  
This is an opportunity that he never thought he would have. Dean kissed him, closed the distance between them and licked his mouth, all of his own violation. Dean wants him, he doesn’t know how deeply, how hotly the desire burns, but it is there, flickering dim in the night, and Sam has the chance he never imagined he’d had to stoke it. All he needs to do is to soothe Dean’s fear and Dean is his: finally, completely.  
  
It’s surreal. Sam feels shaky, weak, as if he hasn’t eaten in days. He wonders if this is all a dream. For a moment he thinks it must be, because this is incredible. He has struggled and schemed and spilled his sweat for this, for a Dean who would sink into his touch with eyes wide open, for a Dean who would trust his darkest secrets only to Sam’s ears, for a Dean who would lick his little tongue into Sam’s aching mouth. It’s fallen into his lap, and all Sam has to do now is make it squirm.  
  
Sam licks his lips. He knows exactly how to distract his angel from the smothering laws of men.  
  
He presses his thumb down, pulling Dean's lip until a sliver of the wet, dark plum of Dean's mouth is revealed. Dean shudders but Sam keeps pressing until his fingertip is moving over the blunt grooves of Dean's teeth.   
  
  
  
"It could be better," he whispers, mesmerized by his thick flesh against bubblegum softness, bruised spider veins, bone breaking whiteness. His angel lets him, just lets him: lets him touch, stare, hunger. He trembles, eager, and he doesn't tell himself to breathe slow or be patient - he doesn't think it's going to take much more for Dean to give into him tonight. His baby brother wants it. He can feel it in the heat of his mouth. "It could be so good, the two of us. I could make it good."  
  
  
  
"Fuck," Dean whimpers soft, breaking, movement sliding his lips over Sam's mouth, bringing both lines of tearing teeth to Sam's skin.   
  
Sam feels another stifling heatwave hit him hard in the guts.   
  
"It'd be so much better if it was just us," he's saying, moving closer so his lips brush the delicate skin at the edge of Dean's mouth. "I love you more than anyone else ever could, you  know."  
  
  
  
Dean takes a shuddering breath. "I know," he whispers.  
  
  
  
Sam smiles against him, kisses his cheek. "I know you better than anyone. Know what gets you off - " He touches Dean's stomach with his other hand and Dean shivers in the fire Sam sets. His hand travels to palm Dean's hip, his crotch. His cock is a stiff, burning line in his jeans, half-hard as Sam rubs him. He moans and Sam moans with him, lips moving heated over his cheekbones, tongue tasting the cinnamon sprinkle of freckles.  
  
"Sammy," his baby says, breathy and helpless, and grips Sam's wrist with his hand. His hips stutter, alive and wanton and apart from the rest of his body. He hisses, tries to still himself. His fingers dig hard into Sam's flesh. "Stop. We - " Another groan, shuddering, wet against Sam's thumb still pressed to Dean's damning mouth. "Stop, it's - s-sick - we can't - "  
  
  
  
"We need this," Sam hisses.   
  
  
  
His own cock is throbbing, already drooling, so damn ravenous for his angel's touch. The cotton of his boxer briefs is sticking to the soft sponge of his cock head, clinging for dear and devastating life. The violence of his lust has him yanking his thumb from his baby's sweet lips, grabbing for Dean's fingers, pulling too rough, too quick, too desperate so he can slide Dean's trembling, burning palm over his erection. They both moan again, shattering the night. Dean's cock twitches violently under Sam's palm.   
  
  
  
"Wrong," Dean gasps, shaking too hard to coordinate pulling or pushing away.   
  
  
  
"No," Sam denies, lips finding Dean's again. He kisses him deep, lips out for blood, but Dean doesn't kiss him back this time. His angel shakes. "It's not," he repeats, desperate for Dean's desire again. "It's not, it's - if we love each other, need - uh - each other, then it's not wrong. And I - need, Dean, need you so bad. Want you. Gotta - g-gotta have you, swear I'll make it good. I always do, angel, always make you come so hard, know the way you need it - "  
  
  
  
Then, suddenly, Sam is cold. Dean is yanking himself away, grinding his palm so hard against Sam's throbbing cock it's painful. Sam hisses, lets him go, and Dean stumbles away, scrambling to put distance between them.   
  
"Dean," he growls, frustrated to the point of tears, needy to the most bottomless pit of desperation.   
  
Dean regards him, panting hard, eyes wide and cold as moonlight. His fists are clenched. "Yeah?" he snaps, breathless and rough. "You sound like you're speaking from experience there, Sammy."   
  
His entire body is shaking, a torn winter leaf, and it takes Sam's lust fogged brain several moments to process Dean's words - Dean's accusation. Instantly he realizes his own stupidity - his own stupid, stupid mouth, dumb thirsty begging tongue. Panic grips him but he tries to think through it. He can still salvage this, he can, he just has to -   
  
Voice wet and trembling with the tears in his eyes, Dean rasps, "Am I even gonna remember this in the morning?"  
  
Sam's eyes widen - shocked at Dean's question, the sharp pain of it, and startled by the reminder that in a few stark hours, Dean will be a clean slate. He won't remember Sam's slip, but he won't remember kissing Sam either, licking into his mouth, offering his pretty moans up just for Sam.   
  
It's too much all at once, swirling overwhelming in Sam's brain, and he doesn't stutter in time to ease or erase Dean's shudders.   
  
"God." Dean is crying again, fat drops rolling in perfect pretty streaks down his face. Shivers wrack his body, violent, sickened, and his skin is the sickly white of the dying. "Oh God, Sammy, how - "  
  
"I never hurt you," Sam hears himself saying. He winces. Stupid, stupid mouth.   
  
Dean just stares at him, unbelieving, pained, disgusted. Before he can speak, Sam edges forward, intent on coaxing Dean to calmness, trying to salvage whatever he can, but as his muscles shift, Dean breaks into a run.   
  
"Dean!" he calls as his brother moves prey fast and terrified through the field.   
  
-  
  
Sam doesn't follow his baby. He isn't sure how exactly he could piece together every delicate thing he's fucked to filth tonight, isn't sure he could keep his hands at his sides, not just show Dean how good it was every time Sam tasted and owned his body.   
  
On the drive home, he tells himself everything is okay, Dean won't remember. He repeats it like a mantra, a meditation.   
  
He's calling Dean's phone when he pulls into the driveway though he doesn't really expect Dean to answer. It's still ringing when he shuffles inside and sees Dean's jacket in a pile near the door.   
  
"Dean," he breathes, relieved, and hangs up.   
  
The sound of the shower running echoes down the stairs. Sam swallows. He thinks of Dean, beautiful, shivering Dean, scrubbing his skin raw of Sam's touch and kiss and possession.   
  
He sinks to the couch, head in his hands, and rasps a laugh before the tears start falling.   
  
Every step he's taken, every careful movement he's made, every single thing he's done to keep the game solidly in his favor, and he destroys it all because he let his dick do the talking in the heated moment where his words mattered most.   
  
He's so fucking stupid.   
  
Tomorrow he gets a do-over, his own get out of jail free card, but that's this time. What if his next slip falls when Dean isn't already pumped with Rohypnol, when he'll remember Sam's deceptions?   
  
The shower doesn't stop for nearly half an hour. When it does stop, so does Sam's heart.   
  
He listens to the sounds muffled by distance and air. He can almost hear the padding of Dean's damp, naked feet across the floor. He does hear Dean's door shut, and he's up, moving desperately in a flash.  
  
He rushes up the stairs to Dean's room. The closed door seems oppressive, unbreakable.   
  
"Dean?" he asks, tentative. His throat is still thick with tears.   
  
There's no answer. Sam doesn't really know what he expected. He moves to Dean's door. Knocking soft, he breathes again, "Dean?"  
  
Nothing.  
  
Broken, Sam sags against the door. "Little brother?" he whispers.   
  
He swears he can feel the heat of Dean's body pressed against the door from the other side. He runs his palms over the wood, searching for his angel on the other side.   
  
"Please, just - " he half-sobs, forehead falling to the door.   
  
"Go away," Dean calls, cold voice startling the quiet and Sam's shaking.   
  
"Dean."  
  
A laugh echoes from Dean's room. It's terrifying, barely half-sane, barbed with loathing and ice.   
  
"What do you want to do, Sammy?" his brother snaps. "Talk? What's the fuckin' point? I won't remember anything you say in a few hours anyway."  
  
"It's not - " Sam says desperately, although he doesn't have an answer. Dean is right: he won't remember this in a few hours. Sam doesn't even know what he's doing.   
  
"I'll still love you tomorrow," Dean chuckles, no humor, only bleakness and desperation.   
  
Sam doesn't know how to respond. It doesn't matter, he realizes, bitter, pained. He can say anything and it won't matter. (None of it matters, none of what he's done has mattered, nothing - )  
  
"I never hurt you," he repeats firmly. "I swear."  
  
His fingers curl, nails scraping the wood, dull pain splintering underneath his fingernails.   
  
Suddenly the door is swinging open. It's a too quick movement, throwing Sam off balance. He nearly falls into the hall when he sees Dean standing glorious and broken in the doorway.   
  
"You never hurt me?" he snarls. His eyes are fierce though they're wet with tears, his voice is powerful though it's dry from crying, and his body is strong, gleaming damp and bristling furious in the moonlight. "You - " He shakes his head. "That's all - that's all you've done. Do you have any idea what you've done, Sammy? What you've done to us?"  
  
Sam stares, helpless. He needs to explain that no, Dean has it all wrong, Sam has only ever made him come, made his cock drip and his asshole hungry. Before Sam can explain, though, Dean makes a sharp, disgusted noise. Then Dean looks at him, stares straight into the deepest part of him and curls his lip like the filth of Sam's soul has sickened him to the core.   
  
"You're sick, Sammy," he accuses. "We both are."  
  
"It's not - " Sam begins, but Dean cuts his words down with wide, pleading eyes.   
  
"It is. It's fucking sick and you've - fuck, I've just let you..." He trails off, shaking his head. "You know why I punched Cas? Why I haven't been able to stand him or anyone else for the past weeks?" Helpless, Sam shakes his head. Dean grins and it's the cruelest, most horrifying thing Sam thinks he's ever seen. "I knew. Some part of me... I think I've known since the beginning, really. That it was... But I couldn't - I wouldn't believe the only person in my world would do that to me. I couldn't listen to the truth because I just couldn't handle it being true. But I - I knew."  
  
Then, eyes shaking, he adds, "I'll still know tomorrow. Even if I don't remember this, I'll still - a part of me will still know, but I won't - I'll pretend, Sammy - " He chokes on a shuddering sob. "Please," he begs. "Please just - just stop. If I don't remember and if you just fucking stop I can keep pretending - "  
  
"Dean," Sam says, heart shuddering in his chest.   
  
"I can't - you're all - you're all I got," he whispers tearfully. "Don't take it away from me. Please. Please, Sam, stop."  
  
In this moment, tears blurring the beautiful, broken vision of his brother, Sam almost wants to say okay. He wants Dean to stop watching him with such raw pain, with such open disgust. He wants Dean to love him and if crawling back into the black hole of want and despair that has been his life since he was seventeen and started watching Dean with more than protection and brotherly affection in his eyes.   
  
But he doesn't want to go back. He has dragged himself, belly on glass, limbs on coal, so far to get to here, standing pained and desperate in front of his shivering angel. He can't go back. He can't.   
  
Dean must see it in his eyes, because he makes another disgusted sound and steps back into his room.   
  
"Fuck you," he growls. "Just fuck you, Sammy. I won't remember it tomorrow so I'm going to tell you now, I - " He squares his jaw, eyes flashing with white hot tears. Sam can feel himself breaking before Dean even speaks, because he knows what Dean is going say. He can feel it buzzing in his blood, turning it tar black, poisoning it. "I hate you," Dean whispers harshly. "I fuckin' - I fucking hateyou."  
  
Dean slams the door in his face before he falls to his knees.   
  
-  
  
Sleep never takes him that night. He rolls two joints, fat and lush, with shaking fingers, sucks down the weed until his body is helium and his thoughts flow freely, but he still can’t close his eyes.  
  
He wishes he’d slipped a pill in his own drink, wishes the Kush in his bloodstream would murder any brain cell that has Dean’s cold eyes and dead voice seared inside.  
  
He doesn’t want to remember tonight either.  
  
-  
  
Sam wanders through the next day in a haze of ganga smoke and pain. The sun is too bright, burns his skin, and every sound is too loud, cracking his bones. Just breathing is a special kind of torture, designed somewhere in the deepest depths of Hell, designed especially for him, the most brutal of betrayers.  
  
Everything aches, from his eyes to the most tender parts of his insides. He thinks he might deserve it.  
  
He never meant to hurt his brother, never even dreamed of inflicting the ferocious horror he saw dawning in his angel’s eyes. The only intention he ever carried, dark as it may have been, was to love Dean the way he couldn’t bring himself to stop loving him, to strengthen the love Dean held for him, to bring them together in a way they could never be with anyone else.  
  
He had earned Dean’s body underneath his. He had earned those pleasure sharp nights. The anger in Dean’s eyes, the disgust, the hatred – Sam doesn’t want to admit it even in his head, but fuck, he’d earned that too.  
  
There is no point in greeting Dean when he knocks on Sam’s door. There is no point to anything, really. He can’t have Dean: can’t make Dean touch him because Dean already wants to but won’t, can’t take Dean in the night because now he knows Dean suspected, felt Sam’s touch curdling sick inside of him. He can’t have Dean in the light; can’t have Dean in the darkness. He can’t have Dean’s body and heart and soul and brain completely even though it’s his name burning them clean under the surface. Dean will never give everything Sam already owns over.  
  
“Hey,” Dean says softly, and Sam has to remind himself Dean doesn’t remember. Their kiss isn’t burning in his lungs. Their fight isn’t slicing him up in slow, agonizing movements. Sam doesn’t say anything. Dean takes a tentative step further into his room. “Did I punch Cas in the face last night?”  
  
There is no tingle of the triumph Sam imagined he would feel last night when Dean’s knuckles were hot from blood and anger. He doesn't feel the sick eager jolt of playing his game with Dean's head and body. This isn't another check he can mark on his list of steps to get Dean to himself.   
  
He doesn't feel anything.  
  
"Yeah," he answers, not looking up from the tray on his lap. He's been grinding the same bud of weed for the past twenty minutes. It's fine particles now but he keeps twisting anyway.   
  
"You know why?" Dean asks.   
  
"Nope." When Dean doesn't say anything, Sam glances up. His brother shines pretty in the morning sun. He licks his lips, asks, "Do you?"  
  
Dean swallows with a shaky smile. "Yeah." He waves his phone in front of him. "Phone's been blowin' up."  
  
Sam doesn't know what to say, what to do. He takes the off the top of the grinder and knocks the bottom against the tray, watching weed sprinkle out.   
  
"Can we - " Dean says. Sam looks at him again to see a strange, shining plea in his eyes. Full lips tremble into a clear, sparkling water smile. "Can we just, get out of here? Just - just for a couple of days?"  
  
Sam blinks in surprise. His fingers freeze. His mouth twitches, unsure.   
  
"I could really, really use a vacation," Dean grins weakly.   
  
"Okay," Sam agrees before his brain fully processes he's moving his mouth.   
  
He blinks again after he says it, but suddenly, a break from this place and this summer, this stale air, a vacation does seem like exactly what Dean could use - what they both could. Something light, so much easier than the tumultuous feelings that have been shredding him apart, spreads through his chest, and his pained, bewildered mind fires.   
  
"Okay, yeah," he repeats, voice steadier and lighter than it had been. He sits up, tray jiggling on his thighs. "Yeah let's - let's go." Dean's eyes shine again, watering, but his smile steadies. Sam smiles back and it's not fake. "We can go to Lawson's."  
  
Dean's face brightens even further. "Yeah? Man, we haven't been there in...years."  
  
"We can stay at that weird motel, the one with the moose heads you like."  
  
"Can we get room service?" Dean asks smiling wide. There is an eager tint in his eyes and Sam's heart swells, happy, proud, hammering. Sam nods. "Can we go today?"  
  
"Soon as you pack your bag."   
  
Dean bounces on heels, looking so young in his excitement that it breaks Sam apart, splits him open. Before Sam can stand, his little brother is rushing towards him, sliding arms around his middle, pressing his cheek to Sam's chest.   
  
Stunned, Sam can only breathe as Dean hugs him. God, he never thought he'd feel such warmth, such genuine affection, from Dean's touch again. His eyes close as Dean washes over him.   
  
"Thank you," Dean breathes into his shirt.   
  
Nearly choking, Sam pats him on the shoulder. "Go on, buddy. Get packed up. We'll head out in 30."  
  
With a final shuddering squeeze, Dean's arms drop from him. Sam is left chilled, bereft, from the loss. A light flush is on Dean's cheeks and his eyes are on the carpet. He nods then, to himself, and shuffles quickly out of the room.   
  
Sam stands for a moment before moving to his dresser. He pulls out shorts, trunks, a few shirts, throws them on the floor, scrambles for his own bag.   
  
This is his second chance. This is the miracle his angel is giving him, an opportunity to heal all that has been sundered between them.   
  
He hesitates only a moment before slipping his baggie of remaining pills to the bottom of his duffle. He piles his clothes on top of it.   
  
A few minutes later, Dean's head pops past his door frame.   
  
"You ready?"  
  
"Yeah," Sam breathes, heart hammering.   
  
He is.


End file.
